Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Just Stop…and Tip Over



While the Coyote and I were on our glorious run along “The Loneliest Highway”, Highway 50, I had an attack.  It was rapture of the outdoors (a total surprise to anyone who knows me).  As a result, I began keeping an eye out for photo opportunities.  Somewhere on the lonely highway we passed an unusually scenic outcropping of rock.  I noticed it had an area right in front where the bikes would look great for a photo.   I happened to be in the lead at the time so I slowed down and gave Al a couple of hundred million signals to indicate we were turning back.  As we approached I left the highway to take a short gravel road to the site.

During the holidays,
the three (red, black and white)
teddy bears in back and me
terrorize the neighborhood.
About the time I got the bike on the gravel I noticed a small almost dry creek was crossing the road.  It also had what looked like a pretty large muddy area I would have to cross.  I only had a split second to assess the situation and came up with zip… nada.  I mean, I could not tell how deep the mud was. Plus, I was not going to put almost a thousand pounds of bike, gear and person on it to find out.  So I grabbed a handful of brake, put my foot down to steady the bike, got no purchase in the gravel and gently laid the bike down.  What I mean is… I fell over.

If you remember the television show, Laugh In, you may recall Arte Johnson used to do that all the time.  Picture a full grown man riding around on a little tricycle, coming abruptly to a halt and falling over.  That is what Arte did and that is just what I did.  Thanks for the idea Arte!  So Al came up, laughed at me for a while and then began trying to help me get the bike out of there.

On the "Loneliest Highway." 
Same day I imitated Arte
We couldn’t get the puppy up so we finally decided to unload my packs and try.  That worked and we were soon underway none the worse for the wear.  So much for the badass biker concept right?!
Falling over... it has happened to me several times, typically while motionless. If it has to happen this is the best time as the worst development is typically a slightly bruised ego.  Conversely, if it happens while you are moving, there are an infinite number of very bad things that can happen. 

“So what” you say, “I have ridden for ten months or ten years or longer and it has never happened to me.”  Don’t worry it will.  As the old Brook Benton standard says, "It's Just a Matter of Time."

Friday, November 21, 2008

Autumn Ride

A gorgeous fall day...

Riding gear hanging on garage wall next to parked 2008 Harley-Davidson FLHX (A hard bagger commonly known as a Street Glide). 

The recipe for the day:

  • Remove vintage WWII olive drab woolen Army blanket protecting bike from dust. 

The fact that the blanket was “appropriated” over 40 years ago automatically gives your bike a certain amount of character.

The blanket releases a not unfamiliar smell combining faint scents of wax, leather, newer plastics, fiberglass epoxy, oil and gas.

  • Remove rolled up leather chaps from fishnet holder on garage wall.
  • Buckle chaps, then reach down and zip each leg, then fasten two snaps at bottom of each leg.
  • Start motorcycle and let run to warm up.

The great sound of the bagger at idle is enough to distract you from properly completing the rest of your “recipe” or checklist so you have to regroup just a little before you go on.

  • Put on and zip up hooded sweat shirt
  • Put on and fasten snaps on leather vest
  • If temperature is around 50F or less, add scarf
  • Put on leather jacket, leaving wrists momentarily unzipped.

A lot of layers yes.  But as the day progresses and as the temperature warms you will be able to selectively remove them and put them in your badass baggers bags baby.

  • Put on “do-rag” to help prevent dreaded “helmet itch”.
  • Put on sun glasses.
  • Put on helmet and secure strap
  • Put on gloves
  • Zip up jacket sleeves snugly around gloves.

You will often forget this simple task... zipping the sleeves…don’t ask me why but you will realize it as soon as you get on the street and notice a chill wind finding its way around your gloves and up your arms. 

  • Perform visual bike inspection to make sure everything is attached and closed properly

There will be times you will be so excited you will forget to do this as well – it’s a fact.

  • Mount bagger
  • Shuffle feet to back bike out of garage
  • Check surroundings
  • Check azimuth of the sun to determine travel direction

This is often the only criterion for the day’s ride… you pick your direction so the sun will not be in your face.

  • Hit first gear
  • Hit the road
  • Begin absorbing input from all senses and from all possible angles
  • Assume everything moving… cars, motorcycles, bicycles, people, animals will do something incorrectly and somehow end up in your path
  • Be prepared to take evasive action
  • Always have an escape route in mind:
  • Can you suddenly move left or right or is there something in the way that precludes it?
  • Can you accelerate out of danger if necessary or will that put you in the path of other objects?
  • Can you slam on the brakes if necessary or is there something moving closely behind you?

Somewhere down that road, there will be a steaming cup of hot coffee and a fresh donut waiting for you.  It’s well worth the effort, in fact it’s priceless! 

Monday, November 17, 2008

Chasing Bullitt

We have some terrific countryside here in Northern California for most of our motorcycle runs– through Gold Country, Wine Country and so on.  The “FOG HOG” run was very different as it really involved no “country” at all.  It was an organized motorcycle tour through the streets of San Francisco and it really worked great. 

Here’s why: 
Dudley Perkins Harley-Davidson® was the “Mother” dealership for this event and they did a fine job of getting everyone lined up.  Dudley is a grand old dealership that has been in San Francisco since 1914.

After Al “El Coyote” Munguia and I made a cold, full-leather, multi-layer, vigorous run on the hogs in from Sacramento, the Dudley folks fed us and the other participants free steaming coffee and fresh doughnuts on a clear brisk Sunday morning in San Francisco.  Al and I arrived early (wanted to be sure to get a commemorative “limited supply” pin) and took off with the first group.  By the time we started the run, the weather was just about perfect.  We were very comfortable shucking the top layer of leathers and wearing our HOG (Harley Owners Group) vests with sweatshirts underneath. 

A Fog Hogs Road Captain “Boston Eddie” led us.  The route was fairly complex with “many a winding turn” as the old song goes. You wouldn’t want to be fumbling with a map while negotiating the streets. As we quickly found, it was a very good idea to do this run chasing a local Road Captain who knew the way. Eddie and his posse did a great job of getting us smoothly through a ton of intersections. The run distance was fairly short at around 35 miles total, with brief stops along the way.  There were several notable parts:

Chasing Bullitt

First, the streets:  We spent a couple hours negotiating them.  As you may be aware, they wander all over the place with plenty of up-and-down hill runs.  There were some good opportunities to practice clutch and brake maneuvers associated with starting from a stop while facing uphill on a steep incline.

The trick is to be able to operate the brake and throttle with your right hand at the same time.  You can do it using your thumb and index finger to operate the throttle while your other fingers are working the brake.  As we negotiated a few hills I was reminded of Steve McQueen’s famous chase scenes in Bullitt.  I thought we might even round a corner and look up to see him double clutching in that ’69 Mustang!

During the run we actually did cruise Filbert Street and several others that were actual locations for what many regard as the greatest car chase scene in film history. 

Next, the noise:  Yup we made some.  And among the close buildings in the city, the pipes can sound very loud.  I am not suggesting this is a good thing but we set off many auto alarms that late Sunday morning. In fact I noticed one person in his window remotely turning off his car alarm as certain, unnamed riders sat at a red light and revved their engines attempting to get his alarm to go off…again. 

Then, the sights:  One of the first areas we passed through was Twin Peaks.  This is a very sparsely settled pair of, you guessed it, peaks that has a commanding, unobstructed view of the entire city, the bridges and the bay. Al and I were unfamiliar with that spot and both later agreed it was pretty damn spectacular. 

After leaving the peaks we passed through or by many notable San Francisco landmarks: Haight-Ashbury, the Presidio, Battery Park and Seal Rocks, the Cliff House and down the Great Highway to Lake Merced

The trip through the Presidio was nice with beautiful landscaping everywhere and some very stately, well maintained old government buildings.  The architecture throughout the city also seems more massive and striking when viewed from a Hog rather than a car. For example, you notice a lot more of the intricate workmanship in the construction of many of the buildings. Also, if you focus long and hard enough at that very same workmanship, you get to run into something! 

Finally, the barbeque: At the boathouse at Harding Park. Two lines, your choice– one with some fine looking sausages, pasta salad and coleslaw.  The other had freshly prepared chicken and some tasty white sauce over rice and a salad.  This was truly above average run fare. 

"Fog Hog" and the streets of San Francisco - a remarkable experience... a lesson in skilled riding while absorbing your immediate surroundings... an up close look at one of the most amazing cities in the world.  Not too shabby eh?  Let's take a break and have a stogie!

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Chili Baaaybeeeee!

This is a little known fact. All bikers, especially Harley riders have to eat.
In reality, the constant stress of lusting after chrome, leather, speed and the open road gives them quite prodigious appetites. That explains why most of them wear chain extensions on their leather vest snaps. It allows a little more breathing room for their...well, you know.

It likely comes as no surprise to know I too experience this phenomenon. Why just today, as she left for work my wife Julieann rustled up some chili in the crockpot and asked me to keep an eye on it. While it is true that I am extremely busy when I am at home instead of travelling in my consultant work I nevertheless agreed. I have to do my part of course. Plus, I asked for the chili as I love the stuff when the weather turns cool. Well I checked it a few minutes ago and it seemed all right. In fact, it seemed great so I decided to do a no-notice Internal Quality Assurance audit. Following my rigid self-imposed guidelines I grabbed a large spoon and filled a big bowl with it. I then secretly added chili sauce to spike the product a little further. 

I called for volunteers to test it and, hearing no answers, probably because no one was there, decided I would have to take the ultimate risk and use myself as test subject. I grabbed a bag of saltines for reinforcement and dove in. It was touch and go several times as I would alternately 'touch' a spoonful of chili or a cracker and test both, repeatedly. Unfortunately, I had some crackers left over so I had to grab a jar of blueberry jam to give them substance before I ate them. Verdict: delicious!  Now this evening, I will probably be expected to eat some of it for dinner as well. I know, I know. "The horror!" you say. But I am up to it. I'm tough. I'm tellin' you right now the life of a biker is not a pretty one...especially the chili watching part.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

The Common Biker

Yours truly in biker mufti.
A he...or a she

Plebian and patrician

They all ride side-by-side 

Sharing a love of the open road

None are of a class at that moment

All are of a common cause

Basking in weather...good or bad

Masters of short hops

One to two hundred miles

To a brief rest or gas

Across the land

Leather and the smell

Chrome and the sparkle

Paint and the gleam

Pipes and the staccato

Land and the views

Each other

This...is the common biker.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Hot Chrome

I really learned how to ride motorcycles in the high desert of Idaho
where we would crank up dirt bikes year 'round.
I remember one January I couldn't resist the urge to take a quick ride.
My gloves were unlined cowhide.
It got so cold I stopped and wrapped my hands around the hot exhaust pipe to warm them.
It dried the cowhide up so much I had to discard the gloves afterward.
I bought my first Harley when daughter Samantha was just about 9 years old.
When I arrived home with it, Sam ran out to look.
She was so taken by the paint and chrome she walked right up to it and accidently touched her leg against the hot exhaust pipe.
It healed fine but it wasn't a good experience.
From that point, I always knew to warn little kids as they approached the bike to look.
With my second Harley, I got to the point where on hot days,
I would take rides wearing shorts.
I knew there were certain positions that could cause me to touch the inside of my calf against the hot pipes but I rode that way anyway.
Every once in a while I would forget and get burned.
That didn't stop me.
(Note:  Brain Surgeons, Rocket Scientists and Joe the Professional... do not dwell on this site)

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Human Traffic Cone?!

Over the years my family has come to accept that I have my share of eccentricities or idiosyncrasies.  Yes, the words mean pretty much the same and yes,  my family likes the “idio…” version best.
My shirt here is made by RK Stratman
Its the best of Muscle T's
That's because of the fit on the shoulder
And the quality of the cotton.
They are not always easy to find as Stratman
has discontinued using the finishing seam
on the shoulder...Communist bastards.

Many have to do with the fact that I am a certifiable Harley-Davidson fanatic.  For example, I collect Harley themed dealer t-shirts.  “Well.” you say, “Everybody who rides Harleys does.”  

Yes they do but I take it one step further.  I collect Harley “muscle-t’s.”  These are the kind that are manufactured without sleeves.  I have them in black, white, grey and yes, Harley-Davidson orange.  I wear them constantly when I am not traveling.

It is, in fact a habit I am proud to share with my neighbor, Joe Sixpack, who has been referred to in some circles as "Joe The Plumber."

It’s the orange ones that put my family members over the proverbial top.  In short, they can’t stand them. When I wear orange muscle-t’s my loving, affectionate son Tyler has taken to referring to me as “Pylon” and when formality dictates; “Traffic Cone.”  Since I am in charge around here, my response is typically, “Hey, let’s show a little respect.  It’s ‘Traffic Cone Sir’ to you buddy.” 

Anyway, it’s not so Joe.  I have visual proof as you can readily see in the photos that accompany this affidavit. Me and my orange t-shirt? = A traffic cone/pylon?

I think not!

There is a book about all this yes... it is called "Badass" and you can click on the title to find it or right HERE

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

The Gump Group


Not too long ago, the Coyote and I made a trip on Highway 50, often titled"The Lonliest Highway in America".  It was a return trip from out East and we had decided to pick up Highway 50 just outside of Salt Lake City then stay on it all the way to Sacramento. 

In that roughly 600-mile stretch of road we saw some remarkable scenery, a few small towns and what I call the four Forrests. Not trees mind you, but the Gump type– you know, like in “Gump. Forrest Gump.”  The first one we saw was a biker, as in bicycle, who was out in the middle of a 50-mile stretch of nowhere.  Next we saw a solitary jogger in a similar situation.

Then we were heading through some foothills into a valley and along the side of the road was another solitary figure.  He had two large garbage bags full of something lying next to him and he was sitting cross-legged staring out into the valley below.  Finally we were a few miles out of a little town and there was a guy clad in shorts and shoes only, heading for what looked like nowhere.

Now as I recollect these guys all had some things in common.  They all looked fairly old.  They all had gray hair and beards and they all were thin.  So what the hell does that mean?  Maybe it is this:  If you want to get old, turn gray and get thin, head for the loneliest highway in America, Highway 50.

That night we settled in at an old mining town named Austin, Nevada. Austin had a handful of stores and three tiny motels.  The rooms were cheap at $35 and clean to boot.  We moseyed (That is what you do in an old mining town, right? You mosey!) up the street to the town restaurant and bar and had a couple hamburger steaks with fries backed up by a couple damn fine longnecks and turned in early in preparation for the last leg home the next day.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Imagine a Pebble...and a Harley

You are a small pebble

Lodged 
In a groove
Of a rear tire 
Of a Harley-Davidson
You are cozy there
But tightly embedded

Resting
On a concrete garage floor

Suddenly
You are disturbed
By the brief whine 
Of a starter
Then a loud
"potato, potato" rumble
Of the exhaust
It's just inches from you
And it sounds like
An avalanche 
Of your much bigger
Brothers and Sisters:  
Boulders

Spinning
Soon, you begin moving in a slow circle
That moves you like a chair in a ferris wheel
Up, then down and around
Punctuated by a regular darkness
That marks the spot where tire meets floor, then road
Right where you are lodged in the tread
You find yourself being backed into the street
Out of the quiet sanctuary of a garage
Then you hear the exhaust rise and fall
As someone prepares to release the clutch 
And launch the Harley into forward motion
Then, it happens!
The exhaust explodes in noise
You feel the force of several G's
As the motorcycle rapidly gains speed
And your Ferris Wheel spins faster, and faster

Faster
From your vantage point at the rear wheel
It seems like the world will end
At least for you
At any moment
The wheel is spinning so rapidly
The tire is warming and expanding
Which makes your perch in the tread
Loosen and seem all the more precarious
At any moment you may be thrown free
And land who knows where?
This is not a proper existence 
For a small pebble!
But then you realize
It could be worse.
You could be a 

Boulder
That is wearing away to a rock
That is wearing away to a stone
That is wearing away to a pebble
That is wearing away to a grain of sand 

Monday, September 29, 2008

Riders of the Purple Sage – with apologies to Zane Grey

The Riders!
The ride into Bruneau Canyon, Idaho is an adventure no matter how you get there. You can walk (not recommended), raft (only at certain times of the year), drive (pickup or SUV only) or ride a dirt bike.  The latter is the fastest and most fun way to do it.  You can approach from all four cardinal points but I am only familiar with two, North and South.  I can safely guess all are very much the same with the exception of the southern approach.  

From the north, east and west you must travel 30-60 miles of high desert gravel and dirt road to reach it.  The southern route is a few miles longer and you must travel through the tiny old mining town of Jarbridge, Nevada in the mountains. From all directions you will encounter miles of sagebrush. Yes, it’s sage of the purple kind. If you have been there before, its sight and smell will alert your senses to impending adventures of the rugged, beautiful kind.

In the mid-70’s, Charlie Brown, Jack Ohl and I were stationed at Mountain Home, an Air Force fighter base about half way between Bruneau Canyon and Boise Idaho. We were all hospital administrators; “pencil-pushing” medics there doing what was right for God and country. Well, maybe just country.  

Mountain Home was pretty isolated and flat (as in 50 miles from the nearest McDonalds restaurant in Boise). In our off time we could either die from boredom or find some activities to suit us and get on with it. There were, and still are, plenty of great outdoor activities there. Things like mountain hiking, snow and water skiing, fishing, white-water rafting and dirt bike riding. We tried many of them together and often included our families. Toward the end of our roughly three year tours there Charlie, Jack and I ended up riding dirt bikes whenever we had a chance.  

“Leadbelly” introduced us to riding. His real name was Jerry Salsberry. Jerry was a civilian warehouseman in our hospital supply department.  He was damn intelligent and had a deep love for the simple things in life.  As a result, Jerry couldn’t be bothered by advanced education. At one time, he had been married to a PhD and he could spit out high-brow words with the best of them. He wasn’t concerned about climbing proverbial career ladders either.  To him life meant smoking, drinking, singing and riding dirt bikes.

We all kind of took to Jerry in admiration of his love of the outdoors.  He in turn decided to mentor Jack (they were both "box-kickers" - medical supply guys) first and next, Charlie and I in the art of riding dirt bikes. That meant he would ride like hell into the high desert, through the purple sage, then stop for a smoke and beer while waiting for us to catch up. Those days were a little before small portable coolers were invented so we would carry drinks and food by improvising with whatever we could. Usually it was just warm beer that had been getting tossed around in backpacks we wore while we rode. During a hard ride it was delicious every time.

Jerry would get a little carried away with the beer part once in a while and become accident prone.  That accounted for a few (maybe all) of his barb wire fence scars... those fences dotted the landscape where we often rode.  

Jerry also had a great singing voice, low-pitched and in tune all the time.  That's why we called him "Leadbelly" (in reference to the famous blues singer) as testimony to his ability. At campsites, he would grab his old beat up guitar and hit us with ballads like "Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain" and "Long Black Veil".  His rendition of the "'Veil" would send chills up and down your spine.   
The little horizontal white line you see behind Leadbelly's back that runs off his left forearm?
That is the road descending into the canyon.

We all rode “Thumpers”; Honda dirt bikes with four-stroke engines. We preferred four stroke engines for two reasons.  First, they were pretty much bullet proof. You could ride them anywhere, all day long, day after day, week after week without performing maintenance other than oiling the chain and changing the oil.  Most of the time we even forgot those two chores. We just rode them, fell over with them, lost them down mountainsides, ran them into things and generally appreciated that they bore the brunt of any riding mistakes we made.

The second reason we rode four stroke engines was the sound they made, especially on high torque, low speed climbs. If you had the right aftermarket exhaust pipe (never the quiet, factory type) you got a “thump, thump, thump” sound that was a perfect match for your testosterone level. This was in pretty stark contrast to the “ring-ding” of a two-stroke engine.  We knew “ring-dings” were faster but that didn’t faze us. We wanted to ride the tough sounding thumpers that in comparison sounded meaner and required little to no maintenance; "bullet proof" (Yup, there I have it again for emphasis.)

One of the first rules we learned was; “When you are about to crash get away from the bike as quickly as possible.  The bike is made of metal. It has heavy, sharp, hot things bolted on it and “it can hurt you.”  One day Leadbelly and I were out for a short training ride of sorts and, while at fairly slow speed… I got a little tangled up.   I was trying to coordinate wheels and handlebars on a slow turn and fell over.  I didn’t react quickly enough so ended up with most of my left leg under the bike.  I couldn’t get enough purchase or leverage on the flat ground to get up so I was stuck. The bike was pretty hot but I didn’t smell anything (like my leg) burning.

Leadbelly rode over, looked down and asked if I was all right. I said I thought so. Rather than help me get out by lifting the bike a little, he laughed and rode away leaving me to figure it out for myself. Such was the nature of his riding lessons. 

For a couple of years, we rode all over southern Idaho; the Bruneau sand dunes, the old mining town of Silver City (and yes, walked into a bar there), Devil’s Hole on the south fork of the Boise River and of course, into Bruneau Canyon.  All the adventures were great but Bruneau Canyon would end up being first in our thoughts whenever we were able to break away for a weekend.

The Campsite and The Ride In
I peek out of the sleeping bag just as the sun meets the horizon… Damn, I was up too late last night drinking and singing and telling lies around the campfire. Have to get up though; can’t wait for the day to unfold.  Start the camp stove and boil water for coffee.  Step away from camp a little for nature’s call to water down some sage.  Shuffle back to the fire and restoke it a little… not too much because we will be heading out right after breakfast.  Squeeze out some paste, hang the toothbrush under the water jug and do a messy job of brushing teeth. Wake up Leadbelly.  He’s the lead cook.  He usually brings butterflied venison tenderloins in a cooler and a jug of sliced potatoes soaking in water.  “They fry up better that way."   We supply the other essentials; eggs, utensils, plates and condiments.  

The other three start stirring. Charlie wants to hang around camp and go through some elaborate preparations before departing. Jack wants to jump on the bike and head out before doing anything else including eating and checking to see if he has any gas in his tank. He fires up his “Thumper” and heads out to do a little reconnoitering before breakfast. Jack has one more synapse than the rest of us. It makes him constantly fired up about getting in the middle of the action as fast as possible, including the ride into Bruneau Canyon this morning.

We calm Jack down a little and he gets the potatoes and onions going.  He can peel and cut up an onion into a frying pan almost as quick as a gunslinger can draw.    

I am not far behind Jack in the “fired up” category. Charlie fusses over something.  I hump stuff for the breakfast while Leadbelly and Jack cook. I want to be done, clean up the gear a little and be gone…real quick.


When we finally finish breakfast, we get packed up with beer, sandwiches and other essentials and begin starting the bikes.  Either Jack or Jerry will have a problem getting their bike started.  It’s something you can rely on.

While both are damn fine mechanics, neither enjoys working on their own bikes.  So, their bikes break a lot.  No problem though as the four of us sort of build the delay for repairs into our mental agendas.  Finally, all four are running and we head out; eighteen miles to the canyon rim.  It’s an amazing way to start the day.  The route is west into the canyon so the sun is at our back. The air is crisp and redolent with sage. The sky is crystal clear. 

There are stretches of old road you can wind the bike up in but much of the trail is strewn with softball to bowling ball sized rocks.  You have to pick your way through many spots. Well…except for Leadbelly who goes full bore no matter what condition the road is in. Typically, by the time all of us reach the canyon rim, he has stopped to have his morning beer and cigarette and he still beats us there.  Sometimes he heads down the trail over a quarter of a mile into the canyon before we get there. We can hear his Thumper echo off the canyon walls as he gets on and off the throttle at various points during his descent.  After a short rest stop at the rim, the rest of us ride in. 

Bruneau Canyon
At the canyon floor, we are all captivated by four remarkable natural features; the river, the canyon, the hot springs and the jasper.  The Jarbridge River is typically pretty shallow in the late spring and fall and we time our runs to fit.  This way we can usually find spots that are shallow and narrow enough to ride and hike through.  It has beautiful, clear water and you can see trout lounging around in its holes although they are usually not too interested in bait.  The canyon has steep walls that rise as high as 800 feet. In most places we explore, the floor is half or less as wide.  It is actually 60 miles long but we cover maybe a couple of miles of it in our explorations… we are happy with that. 

“Indian Hot Springs” emerges from the side of a slope about 100 feet above the canyon floor.  From there, steaming hot water flows into the cold river. If you investigate you can find a comfortable water temperature just a few feet downriver from where the two merge.  In fact, after a hard day of riding and exploring we would often lay in the river at that very spot.  With our backs pointed upriver and without changing position, we could use our arms as rudders to guide the flow. We did it by moving our left arm out to draw in more hot water and right arm out to draw in more cold water. 

After hanging around in the canyon and at the camp a couple days we were always sorely in need of a bath. As it happened, there was a bathtub in a small niche in the canyon wall about 15 feet from the hot springs. We figured some old miner had brought it in. Whoever had done it had also cleverly placed an aluminum rain gutter on the premises. We could put one end of the gutter in the hot springs and one end on the bathtub to fill it up. This provided a mini-aqueduct that worked pretty fast.  After waiting a while for the water to cool off, we could then take a hot bath. We could also wash out some trail clothes.
Two hand polished specimens approximately 5" each across at the base.
The finer example, the one on your right,
 was discovered by son Tyler at age 10 or so. 
(In the background are leather bound books containing this story and others.)

The most intriguing part of Bruneau Canyon is its jasper veins.  They produce a one-of-a-kind combination butterscotch and tan pattern known as (of course) Bruneau Jasper.  The jasper was formed thousands of years ago by mud dripping into gas pockets in molten lava, becoming super-heated and then solidifying into a swirl-pattern. On a small plateau about half way up the canyon wall there was a mine that was occasionally worked although we rarely saw anyone there.  The jasper was typically mined using dynamite to free the geodes. We soon found out we could score by searching in the blast tailings on the canyon floor below the mines so we hit all nearby ravines. In the course of several trips, we each picked up some fine specimens.

Just before sunset, we would do a mad dash up the canyon wall and back to the camp site. We usually had backpacks filled with rocks and they would beat us up a little bouncing around on our backs but we had no complaints. Our main objective was the camp site and some ice cold beer, a camp cooked dinner, some singing around the campfire and swapping some tales that grew taller as the evening wore on.

So that’s who we were, modern day “Riders of the Purple Sage." To me, this is the best way to make your bones in the motorcycle world.  Sure you must take safety classes as well but you also need to cultivate some instincts for counter steering, rapid evasive maneuvers and getting away from the bike when a crash is a certainty. If you get to learn all this in southern Idaho, in the company of the Riders of the Purple Sage, you are truly a fortunate person. 

Not a grey hair in the bunch.  Damn, them there were the days!
L-R - 2018 update: Tom Campbell, Major, USAF, MSC, Ret; Jerry Salsberry, GS (RIP), Jack Ohl, Captain, USAF, MSC, Ret, Charles W. Brown III, Colonel, USAF, MSC, Ret

Epilogue
A few years after Charlie, Jack and I and our families went our separate ways with Air Force career assignments, we learned Jerry had passed away.  He was in his mid-fifties but I think we would all agree he packed two or three full lives into his time. This one is for you Leadbelly. We miss you.

Monday, September 22, 2008

Lines Lines Everywhere Lines

  • Line of questioning
  • Middle of the line
  • Demarcation line
  • Latest in the line
  • Back of the line
  • Telephone line
  • End of the line
  • Cross the line
  • Draw the line 
  • Maginot Line
  • Line jumper
  • Toe the line
  • Chorus line
  • Border line
  • Clothesline
  • Line dance
  • Power line
  • Ticket line
  • Chalk line
  • Front line
  • Goal line
  • Fine line
  • Red line

And then theres:

  • Queue (the highbrow version)
  • I’m not li’ne (nah)
  • Beautiful lines

This is about the last one, Beautiful lines.

See the pictures? See what I mean?

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

The Beginning

At last, I had my first Harley-Davidson® stashed safely in the garage. It was a violet pearl Heritage Classic and I had picked it up that afternoon.

A Harley Davidson Heritage Classic has a beautiful retro look to it. By "retro" I mean it has wire spoke wheels, chrome studded leather saddlebags, a large fat gas tank, large diameter front forks and an over sized headlamp surrounded by passing lights and turn signals. It also has high pull back handlebars and a low seat position. Then there's them mighty fine whitewall tires. The net effect is a modern bike with a look resembling a 1940’s or 1950’s FL Electra Glide model Harley-Davidson®, the sort Elvis liked to ride.

I walked over to the wall of the garage and pulled down a folding lawn chair. Then I went to the refrigerator we had out there, pulled out a beer, twisted the cap and sat down in the chair three or four feet from the Harley. I slowly sipped the beer and stared. I was there for easily over half an hour. I wasn’t embarrassed about the idea at all; in fact, I had the garage door open to let in a little more natural light.

I will bet this very same thing has happened thousands of times in thousands of garages. That is how it is with your first Harley and that is how it will probably be with your last Harley. They are all beautiful masses of chrome, paint and leather. It’s truly an object where form and function come together in a drop-dead gorgeous sort of way.

So what is the motivation to do something like this? I am referring to riding a Harley-Davidson® motorcycle and taking a 4,000-mile tour within a couple of weeks or just climbing on it and taking a short trip to the store, to the country, or anywhere।

Well for beginners it doesn’t hurt to have a fascination with things tacky, with motion, with speed, with sound and a compelling desire to live life large. All those things will get you down the road with a sense of wonder and excitement– truly the best qualities of kids and enduring qualities of adults who refuse to give up being kids.

Friday, August 15, 2008

Snake River Harley-Davidson

You see, it’s hard to ride through a town that has a Harley dealership and not pay a visit. The dyed-in-the-wool fanatic has to stop in to take a careful look at the T-shirts and everything else on display, including a hunt for perfect chrome and leather. It’s a rite of some kind... like going to Mecca. I love the smell, sound and spectacle of it and I just ignore the rest of my senses (primarily the "common" one) when I am in a shop.

I like to say I am making the stop to get my proverbial “fanatic card punched.” In fact, one time I made the comment in a Harley shop with other customers around and an awestruck listener asked if there was such a card (are you paying attention here Harley marketing folks?) I said “No. But if there was I would have one."

As my most noble and wise brother-in-law and fellow Harley rider, Butch Thomas, says when it comes to things related to Harley-Davidson®, “You gotta do what you gotta do.” To add emphasis I say, "It's fanaticism. It is what it is". So the Snake River H-D dealership in Twin Falls, Idaho was on our list and we made the stop.

You also need to know that the collection of dealer logos on the backs of black T-shirts is a statement of art that is carefully practiced among Harley riders. My riding buddy, Al "Coyote" Munguia, bought a bunch of T-shirts. That’s the way it is out there on the road... struggling to make it to the next T-shirt stop.

I know, I know, we're not talking about the Louvre or the Met here but hey, if I am wearing it on my back this is how I want it to look...

For more on this plus the "Mother of all Rallies - Sturgis" and related Badass matters, check this book out!

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Water

From the book, "Badass" on Amazon
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B004U7LZBC

“Not too many years ago few people worried about being hydrated.

Touring motorcycle riders would ride all day long and not have a drop of water.

Then they would wonder why they had near death feelings later in the day.

Mistaking their feelings for a thirst for beer they would swill a few bottles.

Then they would wake up the next day so dehydrated,

their urine looked like the Red River...

and their skin had a distinct sun-dried raisin look."

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

The Few and the Shop Bound


I took a ride on the Hog to Gold (Mark Twain) country for a late lunch. It's in adjoining California counties of Amador and Calaveras.

Pretty beautiful in "them there" hills.
It was about a 100 mile round trip.
Lunch was in the old mining town of Jackson.

Got there looking "bad" on the Harley, climbed off,
spit out a couple of bugs,
then went into the Rosebud restaurant for a
barbecue sandwich special.

It was a damn near perfect, lean and tender sandwich with a
side of home style potato salad.

After; I moseyed outside (you "mosey" in mining country you know).

Next; I lit a small Partagas cigar and squinted carefully
(Clint Eastwood style).

Then; I continued to "mosey" up and down the wooden walkway.
Enjoyed the shop windows but not so the women who, in midweek,
were pretty much limited to shop workers.
I think they are referred to as "The Few, The Plain and The Shop Bound."
(Not to be confused with "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly")

I know, I know; Deborah Kerr worked in a shop as part of a
Western movie once upon a time.
But Deborah was not there that day.

Then; I climbed back on the HOG,
revved the aftermarket (loud) pipes a few times and
roared out of town...

I left "The Few and the Shop Bound" shading their eyes
with their hands to get a better view of my back...
Wondering who that dude with the chiseled good looks
and distinguished gray hair was.  Or not.

Heh...Heh.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Cairo-Practica


A practice derived from ancient Egyptian customs. As often observed when erecting pyramids, the pharaohs would direct slaves to prostrate themselves over large logs and serve as buffers for the stones that were rolled to the top. While the squashing effect was unsettling to a few observers, it continued to evolve and remains today. Hence the classic expression “Cairo--practica” or, as its more commonly known, “chiropractic”.

Yea right... actually they are about to get rolled... literally.
Being raised as a medic from the pitiful age of 17, I have always been somewhat skeptical of chiropractic medicine, even though I have worked for a couple of Doctors of Osteopathy. They were good practitioners, or so I thought, even though they embraced the school of back-cracking. However, in recent years I have developed the habit of screaming while riding my Harley-Davidson; not from joy but from sciatic pain. As my trips got shorter and shorter and my complaints got longer and longer, folks around me found themselves wanting to be somewhere else.

Then, I found out my main Harley riding buddy, Al “The Coyote” Munguia (who is much, much older than me) was having similar problems but getting chiropractic treatment and having some success with it. I also found out Al’s wife, Norma (who, unlike Al is young and beautiful) was receiving similar treatments. Norma is an ICU nurse and most of us understand their backs have a very short shelf life.

So I made my first visit… to The Coyote’s chiropractor. They worked me over quick after I recited my pitiful condition. They put me on this table with a face-hole so my rather large nose would have a place to rest. Then they put an ice pack on my mid-back and attached an electrocution device to my lower back. If they would have hooked it to my temples they would have fried me like a mass murderer but on my back it felt pretty good. After about 15 minutes of this they led me to the executioner’s, or as they called him "chiropractor’s" office and he put me on this upright rack. Then he hit a button which made the rack and I assume a face down, prone position.

After he decided to let me live, he and the table did this simultaneous ‘whack him from above and below’ maneuver a few times around my lower back and voila’(!) I was cured for a few minutes. I went out the next day and made a test ride on the Harley and it took a lot longer for the sciatic screaming to set in so I may be on the right rack… or is it right track?

That’s it. This old medic is going to keep going in for electrocutions and rack whacks for a while. 

Monday, July 14, 2008

Band of Brooders


I just decided to write another book, "Band of Brooders".
It's about a bunch of chickens.
Dumb clucks with a lot of pluck but little luck.
There was not a road those "magnificent bastards" - (George Patton) wouldn't cross...
no matter the heavy casualties.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

Flappin' Cheeks


Al had decided he was going to become one with the road
So he left his detachable windshield at the hotel
I glanced over at him while we had the baggers mellowed at 3,000 rpm
(On the Interstate going about 80.)
His cheeks were plastered back around his ears
He looked like he was pulling around 8 G’s
But it was just the wind making his face into silly putty
I wanted to slow down so he wouldn’t look like he was suffering too much
But I managed to overcome the thought and he kept 'flappin."

Al the Coyote is on the right.
Willie G. Davidson is in the middle
Yours Truly on left

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Three Titles - A Harley Story

Welcome to reality blog! We'll be choosing from story titles to begin this exercise. So lets get to it, we have a Harley story to tell!

1. A weekend...to KILL (I like this one. Reads sort of ominous. Like a new James Bond story)
2. Rubbernecking - Milwaukee and Anamosa (Res ipsa loquitur - it "speaks for itself") - the Latin is only here because I have a pal who likes to see it and it is certain to make Ms. McKillip (my Latin teacher) turn over in her grave.
3. Get Thee to Anamosa! (Yea I'm still hung up on the "nunnery" thing in the other blog)

Those who vote for one of these titles, and those who do not, get a free abbreviated version of this story.

Here's the abbreviated version:

Had a weekend layover in Des Moines...(good story eh?!)

And here is the full, unexpurgated, unedited, unredacted (Is that a word?) version:

Had a weekend layover while working in Des Moines...(But you already knew that didn't you?) ... while working on a project and decided to head for Harley Davidson mecca. Yes, I being a true believer, turn toward the birthplace of Harley Davidson, Milwaukee every day and bow in respect.

Drove a car (cage) there. Don't tell anyone but I didn't have access to a Harley... a decent Harley that is. You see, the rentals at the Des Moines dealer have stock factory pipes. Unacceptable from a fanatic standpoint. They have to have pipes that are loud and emphasize that famous V-twin sound. All in all the trip there was real fine. I had a full tank, a moonroof and the sun at my back.

I struggled a few times on the way though. I had been spoiled on a recent trip to Italy where drivers respect the hammer lane and don't loiter there unless... you got it... they have the hammer down. It's different in Eye Owe Eh(?) though as elder residents and cell phone operators like to plant themselves in the hammer lane and ignore all others.

Got past those struggles and had a brief, enjoyable day in Milwaukee cruising downtown in the city (Great job locals!) and visiting three Milwaukee Harley Davidson dealerships; House of Harley, Hals and Milwaukee Harley Davidson. I hit'em all to get my figurative fanatic card punched. Actually, I was there to acquire dealer pins as I collect them puppies. It is sort of like counting coup only legal (a genetic thing driven by my Chippewa blood). The first two dealerships were fine but the third, Milwaukee Harley Davidson, had a serious problem. You see they had a fairly plain dealer pin that was distinguished by having their phone number on the front in fairly large print. What?! They expect people to pay for these things and display them on vests or in corkboard collections?! I don't think so.

Fact is, the dealership was also a little dingy and not well stocked with clothing or other products. Amazing to me. A name like theirs in the HD Mother city should be used to leverage the most successful dealership in the area not the smallest. I wonder if Willie G. Davidson his own self knows about this and if so, why he doesn't do anything about it?

Headed for Anamosa Iowa and the National Motorcycle Museum on the return trip. It is the home port of one of the largest biker parts places anywhere, JP Cycles. They have a worldwide rep and a worldwide Internet/catalogue business.

Anamosa is a little bitty town but John Parham, founder and owner of JP Cycles is doing what he can to get it on the map. A few years ago, he bought the bike museum in Sturgis, South Dakota and moved it and all its inventory to Anamosa, much to the consternation of local Sturgis folks who considered the attraction part of the community. The museum has a great collection of Harleys, Indians and many other artifacts from the biker world. You gotta' love the Captain America bike from Easy Rider, authenticated by Peter Fonda! Overall, the museum is well worth the $6 entry fee and can easily keep your attention for at least a couple of hours.

After that a quick blast over the Mississippi River and I was back in Des Moines. Once, while crossing a bridge just before the MissusSipee I glanced over my right shoulder and noticed the three r's, a river, a railroad and a regular road all closely following the same path. The river led the way with it's natural curves and the others were tucked in tight formation beside it.

The weekend was well 'kilt, with lots of serious rubbernecking and a good museum layover in almost famous Anamosa.

Titles? Pick one. They all work right?!

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Tattoo

People have often asked me If I have a tattoo. After all It is something regularly associated with a Harley rider. I tell them I am waiting for my son and daughter to get old enough to realize how stupid tattoos are... Then I will get one.

Friday, May 9, 2008

No Beginning... No End


That's how it is with a Harley.
Your work with chrome, leather and paint
is never finished.

So much to do...
So little time...

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Cold Bugs

“We hit a very cold Donner Pass on Interstate 80 at around 10:30 am. (There) we briefly paid tribute to the survivors of the Donner Party and their incredible appetites. At the top of the pass a swarm of pretty butterflies was darting merrily about, enjoying the brisk morning air. We hit them doing about 70. There were big splotches of yellow on our pristine bikes. We were suddenly hauling some very cold, dead bugs." 

Sunday, May 4, 2008

Crisp - Sturgis

Early morning; a little coffee and maybe a sweet roll in the belly and you are ready to roll.

Mt Rushmore
Your choices for the day’s ride are many. The stark beauty of the Badlands is waiting. The close up, three dimensional views (and yes, if there is a fourth dimension it has to exist right there) of Mount Rushmore are waiting too. Listen; it doesn’t matter how many photos you take or have seen. If you haven’t panned the granite presidents with your own eyes you have not really seen them.

Or you can head for the Badlands, Spearfish canyon, Devils Tower, Custer national Park and the famous Needles rock formations. You can also visit Crazy Horse monument (literally the biggest Native American of all time). Don’t forget the Mother of them all…Sturgis for a take on crowd gathering at its finest. Sturgis Motorcycle Rally

They are all day rides and they are all great rides... filled with the beauty of the land and enough curves to keep you alert. Before the day is over you will air your iron pony toward every cardinal point on the compass. You will wonder at the feel of the grips in your hands, the torque that comes on the instant you twist that grip. It will happen hundreds of times on a day trip and, if you are lucky, millions of times during your life of riding.

Spearfish Canyon
You check for the neutral light and then thumb the switch. "Crank!" It’s the gears of the starter, immediately launching itself at the heart of the big bagger’s engine. "Thump!" It’s the first explosion of air and fuel in protest of the starter’s sudden shot of energy.  "Crank… Thump… Rumble!!" The bike fires up faster than you can read these words and settles into the classic, “potato, potato” rhythm that gives the Harley Davidson icon its reputation.

You pause to wait for the oil to begin circulating from the engine’s crankcase to the outer reaches of the engine casings.  The oil will warm and lubricate the bike in preparation for a full day of torque and horsepower responses. During the pause you work through the routine of gloves, sunglasses, zippers and maybe a do-rag. Then you mount. 

You throw a leg over the iron horse and simultaneously lean your weight from left to right as you wrestle the pony up from an awkward incline against the kickstand. Then you have her upright and balanced but she is still clumsy. She's waiting for the centrifugal effect of wheels turning to make her the graceful blend of form and function that she is.

Your left hand squeezes the clutch while a practiced left foot finds and presses the linkage to check... yes, she is in first gear. A slow, deliberate release of the clutch with just the right combination of right hand turning the throttle and she is in motion. The air in front of you reluctantly gives way as you slice through it, creating turbulence most noticeable in your hair, your shirtsleeves and your pant legs.

Crisp. Early morning in the Black Hills. The air is perfect and taking huge gulps of it is the best way to enjoy the route to wherever you are going. The air is also crystal clear and the views of everything are striking in panorama. Yes folks, no special 3D glasses required.

You will never be as close to God as you are when you are riding a motorcycle on the edge. It is up to you to define the edge but it is really anywhere from zero to infinity in terms of miles an hour. You can be gone instantly if you are at a stoplight and the driver behind you doesn’t stop. You can be gone instantly if you tire on a long stretch of Interstate and forget to counter steer when on the exit ramp. You can be gone instantly if that cage (car) driver in the opposite lane approaching suddenly decides to make a left turn in front of you.

In any event, you are right there at His doorstep, waving as you pass by. He, or She says, “Today is your day so enjoy. The time will come when I will call you home but for now, enjoy that earthly pleasure. By the way, what kind of pipes do you have on that Hog?”

I am grateful all right. Thanks to my amazing wife Julieann who is the Earth Angel always on my shoulder and thanks to God for another day.