Saturday, September 28, 2019
We departed Larry & Jana’s at precisely 07:00.
I was astride my BMW K1300S Princess Therese, my veteran companion of half a dozen western campaigns including my 2016 ride to Alaska, More Epic Than Usual. Larry was on his venerable BMW R1100RT Merlin; Jana was astride Ziggy, her 2013 R1200RT.
The temperature was 69 degrees F, which I consider perfect for motorcycling; cool enough that riding with All The Gear on is comfortable, yet warm enough to feel good after stopping and peeling off a jacket. L&J had been trying to decide how many layers, possibly including raingear, they should wear to ensure they wouldn’t get chilly, especially as we’d be climbing the Mogollon Rim and riding across Arizona’s high northern plateau and into the White Mountains.
Silly Arizonans.
I simply made sure all my vents were fully unzipped.
Unfortunately, after months without practice I’d forgotten how to power up and initiate connection over the Sena radio intercom system. We didn’t have the benefit of communication for the first leg of the trip up Beeline Highway.
But I was completely prepared to record the ride on my GoPro. I’d bought extra batteries and a dual charger, giving me confidence I’d be able to shoot a full day’s riding with power to spare; on my last ride with L&J the previous March, with only a single spare battery to swap out during the day, my camera had died just a few miles from our destination and so I didn’t have video of us rolling into Bisbee, which is a real shame.
I’d only recently choreographed and edited that footage into my latest, and at 20 minutes by far my longest, cine-musical-moto-epic. The soundtrack is drawn from one of my favorite albums, and I’m really happy with the finished film. L&J featured prominently in the movie, and Gary made an appearance as well. I was looking forward to premiering it for them.
I’ve really come to treasure the GoPro movies I made in early 2018 during the Moving Pictures tour. I always knew they’d really help get me through the long Michigan winter, but what I didn’t realize is that they’d also help get me through the summer.
Sometimes it’s more fun to watch my videos of riding out West than it is to actually go for a ride in Michigan. Although a number of the best riding roads near my home in southeast Michigan have recently received resurfacing, making them more enticing than they’ve been for a long time, the traffic is heavier and more incompetent than ever. I don’t know how many times I went for a ride this summer thinking to enjoy myself and returned home pissed off; that's supposed to be something that happens with golf, not with motorcycles.
With this awareness now top-of-mind, my intent is to memorialize this year’s tour in several more hours of dramatic moto action, starring my oldest riding buddies, and set to my favorite music.
BACK TO SCENE
We rolled into the gas station at Shea Boulevard to find the rest of today’s PHASTR (PHoenix Area Sport Touring Riders) contingent awaiting us: Gary on his KTM 990, Lonnie on his BMW R1200RT, and Chris on his KTM 790.
Here we finally straightened out the intercoms, and after a bit of dicking around, headed for Payson.
I fell in at the back of the formation, intending to capture video of the group ahead of me. Lonnie was immediately ahead, on a bike with no less than three cameras, one of them pointed backwards. Hopefully he’s got some footage of me – I’d better call him quick before he needs the file space.
This was the largest group I’ve ridden with in I don’t know how long. That’s because I prefer riding in small groups, and do most of my riding in a group of one, which suits me fine. Four is about as big a formation as I generally want to be a part of.
My attitude is basically engendered by simple math. When I'm riding by myself, there is a non-zero possibility that I'll have some kind of mechanical or biological problem.
Any other riders with me also have a non-zero possibility of having a problem.
More riders, therefore, means more possibility of problems. And the increase is multiplicative, not simply additive, because problems can interact and amplify each other. Of course I do what I can to keep that possibility as close to zero as possible, and try to ride with others who do the same.
A larger compound chance of problems is offset, to some degree, by the immediate availability of assistance from fellow riders when a problem does arise. That definitely came into play in 2013 when Therese's alternator died on a remote road far beyond cell phone coverage.
But the advantage of mutual support levels off at some point; a hundred riders doesn't provide 100 times some factor "a". But the possibility of problems does increase at 100 times some factor "p".
This morning the slightly larger group wasn’t a problem. In part that was because we quickly got through the last traffic light for 60 miles, so there was no more stopping to complicate maintaining group integrity.
But the major factor in my comfort was I knew all these riders were extremely experienced, highly skilled, and riding impeccable machinery.
All their "p" factors would be low, and the "a" product would be about as high as it could get.
There is another factor, of course: factor "f", the fun of being with friends doing something we all love.
We departed Larry & Jana’s at precisely 07:00.
I was astride my BMW K1300S Princess Therese, my veteran companion of half a dozen western campaigns including my 2016 ride to Alaska, More Epic Than Usual. Larry was on his venerable BMW R1100RT Merlin; Jana was astride Ziggy, her 2013 R1200RT.
The temperature was 69 degrees F, which I consider perfect for motorcycling; cool enough that riding with All The Gear on is comfortable, yet warm enough to feel good after stopping and peeling off a jacket. L&J had been trying to decide how many layers, possibly including raingear, they should wear to ensure they wouldn’t get chilly, especially as we’d be climbing the Mogollon Rim and riding across Arizona’s high northern plateau and into the White Mountains.
Silly Arizonans.
I simply made sure all my vents were fully unzipped.
Unfortunately, after months without practice I’d forgotten how to power up and initiate connection over the Sena radio intercom system. We didn’t have the benefit of communication for the first leg of the trip up Beeline Highway.
But I was completely prepared to record the ride on my GoPro. I’d bought extra batteries and a dual charger, giving me confidence I’d be able to shoot a full day’s riding with power to spare; on my last ride with L&J the previous March, with only a single spare battery to swap out during the day, my camera had died just a few miles from our destination and so I didn’t have video of us rolling into Bisbee, which is a real shame.
I’d only recently choreographed and edited that footage into my latest, and at 20 minutes by far my longest, cine-musical-moto-epic. The soundtrack is drawn from one of my favorite albums, and I’m really happy with the finished film. L&J featured prominently in the movie, and Gary made an appearance as well. I was looking forward to premiering it for them.
I’ve really come to treasure the GoPro movies I made in early 2018 during the Moving Pictures tour. I always knew they’d really help get me through the long Michigan winter, but what I didn’t realize is that they’d also help get me through the summer.
Sometimes it’s more fun to watch my videos of riding out West than it is to actually go for a ride in Michigan. Although a number of the best riding roads near my home in southeast Michigan have recently received resurfacing, making them more enticing than they’ve been for a long time, the traffic is heavier and more incompetent than ever. I don’t know how many times I went for a ride this summer thinking to enjoy myself and returned home pissed off; that's supposed to be something that happens with golf, not with motorcycles.
With this awareness now top-of-mind, my intent is to memorialize this year’s tour in several more hours of dramatic moto action, starring my oldest riding buddies, and set to my favorite music.
BACK TO SCENE
We rolled into the gas station at Shea Boulevard to find the rest of today’s PHASTR (PHoenix Area Sport Touring Riders) contingent awaiting us: Gary on his KTM 990, Lonnie on his BMW R1200RT, and Chris on his KTM 790.
Here we finally straightened out the intercoms, and after a bit of dicking around, headed for Payson.
I fell in at the back of the formation, intending to capture video of the group ahead of me. Lonnie was immediately ahead, on a bike with no less than three cameras, one of them pointed backwards. Hopefully he’s got some footage of me – I’d better call him quick before he needs the file space.
This was the largest group I’ve ridden with in I don’t know how long. That’s because I prefer riding in small groups, and do most of my riding in a group of one, which suits me fine. Four is about as big a formation as I generally want to be a part of.
My attitude is basically engendered by simple math. When I'm riding by myself, there is a non-zero possibility that I'll have some kind of mechanical or biological problem.
Any other riders with me also have a non-zero possibility of having a problem.
More riders, therefore, means more possibility of problems. And the increase is multiplicative, not simply additive, because problems can interact and amplify each other. Of course I do what I can to keep that possibility as close to zero as possible, and try to ride with others who do the same.
A larger compound chance of problems is offset, to some degree, by the immediate availability of assistance from fellow riders when a problem does arise. That definitely came into play in 2013 when Therese's alternator died on a remote road far beyond cell phone coverage.
But the advantage of mutual support levels off at some point; a hundred riders doesn't provide 100 times some factor "a". But the possibility of problems does increase at 100 times some factor "p".
This morning the slightly larger group wasn’t a problem. In part that was because we quickly got through the last traffic light for 60 miles, so there was no more stopping to complicate maintaining group integrity.
But the major factor in my comfort was I knew all these riders were extremely experienced, highly skilled, and riding impeccable machinery.
All their "p" factors would be low, and the "a" product would be about as high as it could get.
There is another factor, of course: factor "f", the fun of being with friends doing something we all love.
So I relished the view ahead of me as we rode at high speed along the graceful sweeping curves of what is now a four lane divided highway on which traffic generally moved above the speed limit. I recalled back in the eighties, when I lived out here; this heavily-travelled road was two lanes weaving tightly around the rocky mountainsides, an absolute road bike heaven – especially for a boy from the Michigan flatlands.
But Beeline Highway was often clogged with miles-long successions of cars behind some obliviot crawling along at a fraction of the speed limit, and that was far more akin to hell than heaven. The situation was especially miserable on hot Sunday afternoons when everyone was dreading the return to a sweltering Valley after having spent the weekend in the cool pines.
Such conditions often incited motorcyclists to take advantage of their acceleration, and ability to slip into small gaps, to exploit every opportunity to leapfrog traffic. Sometimes this was done in ways that I’m surprised didn’t get us run off the road or shot out of the saddle. I’m sure a lot of people were irked at us as we easily passed dozens of cars at a time.
But then, we were irked all these cars couldn’t get out of their own way, let alone ours.
BACK TO SCENE
Beeline Highway has changed. To be sure, today there were still obliviots and griswolds and putzi to deal with, and sometimes they would get in our way for a bit. But now nobody can singlehandedly grind the whole stream to a crawl, and in general we just moved with traffic (or maybe a bit faster, which I’ll argue is often safest) and got around the slowpokes without significant drama.
The video I shot on the way to Payson will one day also tell today’s story, and in a way far more compelling than my prose: it will be a celebration of the poetic grace of a group of motorcycles leaning in succession into a curve or a lane change, or moving as one at high speed; spectacular scenery (yadda yadda); a brilliant blue sky. It’s going to be a wonderful film to add to my body of work.
But that’s not going to happen for a while. Last year, I cut a lot of the video that makes up Moving Pictures during the ride. But I don’t plan to do that anymore. It’s a chore to do it during the ride, robs me of the time I should be enjoying, and is often frustrating when I’m settled for the night in a place with poor internet. By contrast it’s an enjoyable hobby to do at home with a big monitor, hi-fi audio, a drink at my elbow, and a long winter to get it done.
Even so, as I was riding there was a nagging thought: what if my camera isn’t working right?
On the eve of the ride, I’d ridden over to L&J’s house in Mesa from mom’s house in west Phoenix, where I’d spent the last week telecommuting. I’d mounted my GoPro and recorded the entire ride, start to finish. I was hoping it would be a very psychedelic experience.
When I got to Larry’s I took a quick look at the footage, which indeed did look like it might be exciting stuff. Then I tried to download it to my laptop.
I couldn’t do it.
I tried several times using various methods, and while several very small test shots I’d taken in mom’s garage transferred with no problem, the 3GB+ file with video of the ride itself failed to copy.
Today I was hoping that was just a fluke. I was also making an effort to stop and start the camera more frequently so files wouldn’t be so big. But doing that carries its own risks and problems.
When we got to the restaurant, a busy diner called Crosswinds at Payson Airport, I confirmed I’d recorded successfully. That made me feel better, but didn’t mean I wouldn’t have a problem later. The night ride across Phoenix was all there in the camera; I’d watched the whole thing on the tiny screen after I gave up trying to download it. But if I can’t get the clips out of the camera, they are worse than useless.
BACK TO SCENE
Crosswinds Restaurant is decorated in the same style as my grade-school bedroom: a ceiling full of model aircraft suspended on fishing line.
I looked wistfully out the windows at the light aircraft coming and going, and eavesdropped on the conversation at the table next to me, a big crowd who’d obviously flown in for breakfast. My only real regret in life is that I’ve never earned pilot’s wings. Yet.
Bitchin' Biker Babes...and Larry...Crosswinds Restaurant
Shelly and Angie, other PHASTR riders, arrived on BMW F-series GSs and with another woman rider new to our group.
We enjoyed a hearty breakfast and a joyful reunion.
After breakfast L&J&G&I went on tour. The four of us departed, fueled up, and headed northeast. We climbed the thousand foot escarpment of the Mogollon Rim. This was another route on which the former two-lane twisties have been replaced by a modern divided highway. Still it seemed like there was just enough traffic to make our ascent less smooth and fast than it would have been if we’d had it to ourselves.
At the top of the grade we hooked a left and rode along the rim to the Military Sinkhole overlook that for year’s we’ve mistakenly referred to as “Woods Canyon Lake”, which is further down the rim road. This is a place L&J had first invited me to decades ago. A short walk from the parking area leads directly to the top of the crags that make up the cliff face.
We enjoyed a hearty breakfast and a joyful reunion.
After breakfast L&J&G&I went on tour. The four of us departed, fueled up, and headed northeast. We climbed the thousand foot escarpment of the Mogollon Rim. This was another route on which the former two-lane twisties have been replaced by a modern divided highway. Still it seemed like there was just enough traffic to make our ascent less smooth and fast than it would have been if we’d had it to ourselves.
At the top of the grade we hooked a left and rode along the rim to the Military Sinkhole overlook that for year’s we’ve mistakenly referred to as “Woods Canyon Lake”, which is further down the rim road. This is a place L&J had first invited me to decades ago. A short walk from the parking area leads directly to the top of the crags that make up the cliff face.
The view is tremendous, yadda yadda.
Image courtesy Larry Haruska.
We often raise hammocks and lollygag here, but not this day. After snapping a few photos of us striking poses intended to evoke a sense of drama and adventure...
Gary
...and outright goofiness...
Larry & Jana
...we got back on the road and wove our way through the forest towards Show Low. Lots of traffic but fortunately also a fair number of passing zones.
The weather remained as nice as I could possibly have asked for. Under a virtually cloudless sky the warming day had compensated for our gain in elevation; the temperature remained ideal.
Gas at Show Low, and when we departed the city limits we were finally on a stretch of road where traffic became inconsequential. We were really out in the boonies now, zooming across the high plateau where to the north a band of ruddy color on the horizon hinted at the rose-tinted fossils of the Petrified Forest. And I knew that a glance stolen at the right time, and in the right direction, could even spot Meteor Crater. But I didn’t see it on this ride.
We stopped in Springerville just long enough to fuel up, then headed south down US-180. The last time I was on this road was my first tour with Therese in 2013, and it is suffused with notoriety. As we passed through the tiny crossroad of Reserve, Larry pointed out “my café”, where I’d spent hours waiting after arranging for a flatbed transport to meet me. When he arrived we then drove further south to mile marker 26, where Therese was parked on the shoulder, the victim of what I’d later learn was a dead alternator.
You can read more about it in Return To Malfunction Junction.
BACK TO SCENE
On this day in 2019, the ride down this delightful squiggle of pavement was nearly perfect. About the only problem was that a segment of video will be unusable thanks to the big bug splat on the lens cover.
Our destination was the Copper Manor motel in Silver City, New Mexico. Eventually Larry sorted out the reservations he’d made months earlier and got us checked in. We moved our gear into the rooms, freshened up, and secured the bikes.
Then we walked to the Oktoberfest celebration at Little Toad Creek Brewery & Distillery, literally the cornerstone of Silver City’s historic downtown.
Larry was careful to ensure that either Gary or I had a smartphone with Uber app. He felt confident about the 1.3 mile hike into town under a balmy late afternoon sky; he wasn’t so sure about a 1.3 mile walk back in the dark.
The walk was fun; the evening was every bit as pleasant as the day had been. I’d been a bit concerned that I might end up too lightly dressed in my zip-off shorts and classic red Hawaiian shirt, which Larry chides me about because he has so many pictures of me wearing it. But it packs small and has held up amazingly well for years; so I made sure to pack it again for this trip. Whenever I put it on it affirms good times are on the immediate forecast.
The Oktoberfest was a small fenced area in front of the brewery, to which we were admitted by a friendly gal in costume who insisted we must have a wristband to drink, but never examined our credentials to confirm we were of legal age.
After a rest room break I came out of the brewery to learn from Larry that there was indeed table service; he’d already ordered (it had been a long time since lunch) and had been promised delivery. Presumably I’d be able to place an order of my own with her when she returned.
That settled, I went to the tap wagon where more gaily-costumed gals happily drew me a very palatable copper-colored ale, imaginatively branded Copper Ale, that I stuck with all night.
When Valeria returned with Larry’s dinner, she provided me a specials list which did not include bratwurst (they’d run out) but did include rouladen. Its description looked good, but I didn’t expect much from whatever the bar’s kitchen crew might think was passable, once a year, as German cooking.
L&J&G&I sat there in the deepening twilight. A couple guitar strummers took turns playing music I didn’t recognize; originals I think, but at any rate they simply weren’t good enough that I felt like buying the CD they were hawking. I try to support local musicians but there are thresholds.
It didn’t help they were more than once drowned out by some of the loudest Harleys I’ve ever heard, which we’d seen parked just up the street from the biergarten. The noise made conversation impossible and failed to positively impress any of the riders sitting at my table, who’ve certainly got more than a million miles of motorcycling experience between us.
Valeria brought me a heaping pile of food which it took me a little while to realize was perhaps the best rouladen I’d ever had.
The weather remained as nice as I could possibly have asked for. Under a virtually cloudless sky the warming day had compensated for our gain in elevation; the temperature remained ideal.
Gas at Show Low, and when we departed the city limits we were finally on a stretch of road where traffic became inconsequential. We were really out in the boonies now, zooming across the high plateau where to the north a band of ruddy color on the horizon hinted at the rose-tinted fossils of the Petrified Forest. And I knew that a glance stolen at the right time, and in the right direction, could even spot Meteor Crater. But I didn’t see it on this ride.
We stopped in Springerville just long enough to fuel up, then headed south down US-180. The last time I was on this road was my first tour with Therese in 2013, and it is suffused with notoriety. As we passed through the tiny crossroad of Reserve, Larry pointed out “my café”, where I’d spent hours waiting after arranging for a flatbed transport to meet me. When he arrived we then drove further south to mile marker 26, where Therese was parked on the shoulder, the victim of what I’d later learn was a dead alternator.
You can read more about it in Return To Malfunction Junction.
BACK TO SCENE
On this day in 2019, the ride down this delightful squiggle of pavement was nearly perfect. About the only problem was that a segment of video will be unusable thanks to the big bug splat on the lens cover.
Our destination was the Copper Manor motel in Silver City, New Mexico. Eventually Larry sorted out the reservations he’d made months earlier and got us checked in. We moved our gear into the rooms, freshened up, and secured the bikes.
Then we walked to the Oktoberfest celebration at Little Toad Creek Brewery & Distillery, literally the cornerstone of Silver City’s historic downtown.
Larry was careful to ensure that either Gary or I had a smartphone with Uber app. He felt confident about the 1.3 mile hike into town under a balmy late afternoon sky; he wasn’t so sure about a 1.3 mile walk back in the dark.
The walk was fun; the evening was every bit as pleasant as the day had been. I’d been a bit concerned that I might end up too lightly dressed in my zip-off shorts and classic red Hawaiian shirt, which Larry chides me about because he has so many pictures of me wearing it. But it packs small and has held up amazingly well for years; so I made sure to pack it again for this trip. Whenever I put it on it affirms good times are on the immediate forecast.
The Oktoberfest was a small fenced area in front of the brewery, to which we were admitted by a friendly gal in costume who insisted we must have a wristband to drink, but never examined our credentials to confirm we were of legal age.
After a rest room break I came out of the brewery to learn from Larry that there was indeed table service; he’d already ordered (it had been a long time since lunch) and had been promised delivery. Presumably I’d be able to place an order of my own with her when she returned.
That settled, I went to the tap wagon where more gaily-costumed gals happily drew me a very palatable copper-colored ale, imaginatively branded Copper Ale, that I stuck with all night.
When Valeria returned with Larry’s dinner, she provided me a specials list which did not include bratwurst (they’d run out) but did include rouladen. Its description looked good, but I didn’t expect much from whatever the bar’s kitchen crew might think was passable, once a year, as German cooking.
L&J&G&I sat there in the deepening twilight. A couple guitar strummers took turns playing music I didn’t recognize; originals I think, but at any rate they simply weren’t good enough that I felt like buying the CD they were hawking. I try to support local musicians but there are thresholds.
It didn’t help they were more than once drowned out by some of the loudest Harleys I’ve ever heard, which we’d seen parked just up the street from the biergarten. The noise made conversation impossible and failed to positively impress any of the riders sitting at my table, who’ve certainly got more than a million miles of motorcycling experience between us.
Valeria brought me a heaping pile of food which it took me a little while to realize was perhaps the best rouladen I’d ever had.
The strummers started packing up. But inside the brewery the Rhythm Mystics were just getting started.
Michele played a 5 string bass and traded lead vocal duties with Peter, sitting behind a keyboard with a guitar on his leg. A drummer and a percussionist were wedged in behind them on the tiny stage.
I liked what they were playing: more than one Paul Simon number from his superb album Graceland, a really well-done rendition of Jewel’s Who Will Save Your Soul, The Police’s Walking on the Moon, and other eighties stuff I surely never expected to hear performed live that night, like Howard Jones’s Don’t Try To Live Your Life In One Day.
When L&J&G decided they were heading back to the room, I decided I was enjoying the Rhythm Mystics too much to call it a night this early; hell, they hadn’t even finished their first set.
Which at my request eventually included some Bangles and B-52s.
As the night went on Michele really started showing her chops, belting out funk and soul classics like Funky Town, We Are Family, and Aretha’s Think with authority and panache.
I stayed to close the place down, bought the band a round, did buy their CD.
Then I staggered 1.3 miles through the back streets of the dark and silent town.
The Copper Manor is next to Denny’s, and that bright yellow sign was like Zoot’s Grail-Shaped Beacon. My final Copper Ale wasn’t sitting well and I needed to get something else on my stomach, that solid base of rouladen notwithstanding.
I drifted in and found a seat at the counter, figured out an order, and felt a lot better once I’d eaten.
Then I walked across the parking lot, let myself into the room Gary and I were sharing, and collapsed into bed.
I didn't sleep well, in part because I kept wondering if I could successfully download my video files.
I liked what they were playing: more than one Paul Simon number from his superb album Graceland, a really well-done rendition of Jewel’s Who Will Save Your Soul, The Police’s Walking on the Moon, and other eighties stuff I surely never expected to hear performed live that night, like Howard Jones’s Don’t Try To Live Your Life In One Day.
When L&J&G decided they were heading back to the room, I decided I was enjoying the Rhythm Mystics too much to call it a night this early; hell, they hadn’t even finished their first set.
Which at my request eventually included some Bangles and B-52s.
As the night went on Michele really started showing her chops, belting out funk and soul classics like Funky Town, We Are Family, and Aretha’s Think with authority and panache.
I stayed to close the place down, bought the band a round, did buy their CD.
Then I staggered 1.3 miles through the back streets of the dark and silent town.
The Copper Manor is next to Denny’s, and that bright yellow sign was like Zoot’s Grail-Shaped Beacon. My final Copper Ale wasn’t sitting well and I needed to get something else on my stomach, that solid base of rouladen notwithstanding.
I drifted in and found a seat at the counter, figured out an order, and felt a lot better once I’d eaten.
Then I walked across the parking lot, let myself into the room Gary and I were sharing, and collapsed into bed.
I didn't sleep well, in part because I kept wondering if I could successfully download my video files.
The CineMusicalMotoEpics of the Day:
- Night Ride Across Phoenix
- Music: Blade Runner by Vangelis
- A PH.A.S.T.R. Ride To Payson
- Music: Time Machine by Joe Satriani
- Mogollon Rim
- Music: Friends by Joe Satriani
- Colorado Plateau (of Arizona and New Mexico)
- Music: Timelessness by Rhythm Mystic
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