Travels of An Old Dude
BOB PIERCE
I WON'T DENY IT. I was still afraid of my newly acquired BMW-my first motorcycle. And there I was, ready to roll on a 2600-mile trip from my home in suburban Chicago to San Francisco.
My bike was a ’67 R50 with 8000 miles on it. It had a windshield, luggage rack and a motor that was tight and sweet to listen to.
To add to my fears, it was raining, hard and steady. It was October — Saturday, Oct. 1 1 —one of the Midwest’s most reliable months.
GREEN IN THE SADDLE
I was a green rider. Three weeks and less than 150 miles of saddle time. And I was still spooked from my mad, maiden ride when I hooked a shockabsorber on a car bumper and flattened myself on the trunk of a very hard Buick.
I was turning in a small parking lot when it happened. 1 goosed the throttle when I meant to retard it! I had a thigh bruise like a pie pan and a morbid memory of how it feels to be shot out of a cannon.
Two questions kept me skittish: 1) With no rain-riding experience, how hairy was my first day in a deluge with 75 lb. of gear apt to be? 2) With no hill-city experience what were the odds I’d roll downhill backwards at the first stoplight on San Francisco’s vertical streets?
Think I’m kidding? I was so chicken I almost turned back a mile from home. It’s stupid to tell this, but the damn bike fell over on me just waiting at a stoplight !
1 put my supporting foot on a gob of grease. My angle of rest and the gutter gradient did the rest. 1 started to slide. With my weight, 75 lb. of gear and 420 lb. of BMW committed to that foot, 1 went down on my back like Fido playing “dead dog.” Witnesses just looked puzzled. Was I showing off, or did 1 always get off a bike that way?
Embarrassment was one thing. Picking the loaded bike up was something else! My first two tries were ball-busters. Then 1 got smart. 1 placed my feet just right, squatted down, straightened my back and came up with my legs like a piano mover. Up she came like a trunk full of pig iron, fighting me all the way. I prayed I'd never have to lift her again.
I walked the bike around the corner, started her up and slowly circled three or four blocks wondering whether this trip was really necessary.
When my cool came back 1 sloshed on to a rendezvous with Route 66, the old Chicago-to-L. A. highway Tex Benecke used to rave about.
TRAVEL GEAR
My gear included a great little Eureka Drawtite tent and an Eddie Bauer arctic sleeping bag. October nights in the western highlands can get pretty frigid.
I got the sleeping bag into a heavy plastic duffle bag with other gear. I laid the duffle bag across the passenger half of the saddle and kept its width less than the handlebars so nothing could snag me from the side. Two medium suitcases rode the luggage rack with the tent bag on top of them.
Main support for the load was a 10-ft. web belt. I passed the belt under the front of my saddle to the middle of its length. Then I laid the two resultant 5-ft. lengths over the load about a foot apart and buckled them under the trailing edge of the luggage rack.
For lateral stability I used my bungy cords from one side of the rack to the other over the suitcases and tent.
I carried a quart of top-off oil in a plastic bottle, new inner tube and clutch cable, extra shoes, flashlight, lock and chain, etc., in canvas saddlebags. A bungy cord tie-down on each side kept the bags from shifting position under way.
A piece of canvas 30 by 48 in. made a rain cover for the load and provided a secure, accessible place to stow sweaters, jacket and rain gear where they could be grabbed as needed. Two bungy cords from the passenger safety strap over the covered load to the trailing edge of the luggage rack kept the cover snug all the way.
A shaving kit fastened to the handlebar with a single bungy was convenient for carrying sunglasses, tire and plug gauges, extra plugs, pen, electric razor, etc.
FIGHTING A HEAVY LOAD
Most of the load weight was ahead of the center of the rear wheel. I experienced no instability on the road. But the two times 1 had to right the bike from the dead-dog position —man, I can tell you 75 extra lb. on top can make the righting of a BMW one hell of a strain !
The heavy load also made it impossible for me to rock the bike up on the center stand. 1 struggled with this problem on and off for two days before I left home. Finally, I tried rolling the back wheel up on a short piece of 2 by 4 before pulling her back for the vault on the stand. It worked! The added impetus of rolling off the block put her on the stand easily every time. I carried a short length of 2 by 4 anyway as a crankcase prop in case of a flat up front.
1 also carried a small square of half-inch plywood, about 6 by 6 in. For beer and bladder stops on unpaved ground, I centered the kickstand on it to keep the stand from sinking and pulling the bike down.
Beating southwest toward St. Louis against the sting of raindrops was exhilarating. The faster I rode, the harder the sting, like rice thrown in your face at a wedding. Beak and cheeks got numb after a time and I ignored them.
Plowing along like a water skier in high speed traffic, I envied the motorists the nicety of their hard-working windshield wipers. Looking at the world through rain-spattered glasses is a tricky business.
I found the eyes are clever though at looking between the rain drops. Also, that a slight downward tilt of the head stretches the droplets, reduces their density and improves the view.
For the hell of it, I tried it without the goggles. But my eyelids went crazy trying to keep my eyeballs dry. I yanked the goggles down again.
"RAIN GEAR STINKS..."
Trip notebook entry for that day: “Rain gear stinks. Should have tried it out before leaving home. Thought tucking tail of poncho under crotch would keep pants dry. Nylon pant sleeves no good on a bike. Rain pants-get some! . . . With arch straps to keep pant legs down over boot tops!”
Travels Of An Old Dude
Going West, Or Fast, Or Anywhere Is The Classic Adventure, The Road Rider Syndrome That Appeared Long Before Bronson. Do You Wonder Whether You Have What It l akes To Take Off? Don’t. All You Need Is Time, A Few Weeks In The Saddle, And A Good Bike Underneath You.
1 was soaked from the waist down all the way to Granite City, 111. (outskirts of St. Louis), some 6 hr./300 miles down the road. It was dark when I got there. The rain picked up force as 1 stopped at the end of the 66 lead-off ramp. My throttle hand was numb in a cold, mushy glove and I over-accelerated in a right-hand turn. Instantly, the drive-wheel bolted on the bias and dumped me in the middle of a busy four-lane leading into town.
I was lucky. Oncoming cars and trucks stopped, lighting my purple face in the downpour as I “oooofed” through the weight-lifting act once more and slowly forced the bike to its wheels.
A farmer in a pickup offered to tote the bike to a garage if it was damaged. The BMW was fine, but his offer was encouraging. 1 had expected people to be indifferent, if not a little hostile, toward cyclists. I was wrong. For 2600 miles people were not only considerate, many were honestly intrigued with my undertaking.
Minutes later while I was still trying to get the flooded motor to start, another pickup stopped. The driver was half boiled. He got out in the rain in his shirt sleeves and offered to truck me and the bike to town-or better still, goddammit, leave the bike there and solve my problem by buying me a drink. His wife had just left him and he was planning to spend the weekend on a barstool getting even with her.
I stayed at the Sun Motel that first night in Granite City. I was a soggy mess. Good rain pants, and I would have stayed dry. My full Bell helmet overlapped the poncho collar just right. For all that dousing, no water shipped in at the neck.
Hope for a dry second day dissolved when I looked out the window Sunday Imorning. My BMW was shimmering with the steady splatter of water. A good breakfast cheered me up, but half an hour of the starting game with flooded carburetors modified my outlook.
Once the bike got flooded I always had a struggle. Both times the bike went over with me I had a hell of a time bringing her back to life and now my ignorance of the right technique held me up again. When she popped it was the last kick I had left.
Missouri is like a roller coaster. I was elated as I sailed up and down over the wet, autumnal countryside. At Rolla, a happy, hairy haggle of hippies laughingly wagged thumbs and hailed me with pleasantries as I waved and burbled by. They looked biblically wretched huddled under papers and ponchos in the deluge like they were waiting for Noah to steam up in the Ark.
stopped at several stores, but no rain suits. If it had not been for the chill of October at 65 mph I might have gotten used to wet laundry.
BRONSON RUBS OFF
Five or six times that day I forgot completely about my clammy underwear. I was a kid again. Local girls, joyriding two or more in a car, were hailing me like Bronson. They would catch up slowly, then shout and wave as they passed. I began to enjoy these interludes with Miss America. She kept right on popping up every day of my journey.
Notebook entry: “Winds stronger crossing Missouri today. Mayflower van passed me on a gusty hilltop. Combination of wind force and suction yanked the bike hard, set up hell of a wobble. Was I startled? Better believe it. Wonder if suction hasn’t swallowed a rider here and there when wind force and passing clearance are just right?”
It was dark and still raining when I pulled into the “Glo Motel” in Springfield, Mo. I was wetter than a gym sock on the shower room floor. I peeled to the skin, then discovered the room had no hangers-and no phone to ask for some. How could I get all my dripping gear up in front of the wall heater?
I sat naked on a cold plastic chair and thought about it. The bungy cords! The ceiling was blocked with 18-in. acoustical tiles laid loose on a metal gridwork. I poked the bungy hooks up over the metal cross sections and created a great floating “mobile” of soggy jockey shorts, gloves, sweaters, shirt, sox, jacket, T-shirt, pants and boots-all floating mystically in the rising warmth of the heater. Talk about beautiful! I felt like you know Who on the seventh day.
NO RAIN, NO START
No rain! Monday morning was dreary but dry. But I couldn’t get the bike to start. For two hours I tried this, tried that, waited for the carbs to drainstupid! I had called two bike shops but didn’t expect help for another 30 min. when Clyde Jenkins, owner of a ’47 BMW R50, drove up in a station wagon and solved my problem.
Clyde, a friendly mechanic about my age, 48, had watched me pumping the kicker from the stoplight at the corner. He showed me how to open the throttle wide and pump the kicker to drain the carbs. He also showed me the proper throttle setting to start. I hadn’t been cracking it enough! Jumping her from not enough gas to too much seems like I should have stumbled into the right proportion more often.
Clyde said he rode his old BMW every weekend. “Like to get out there and move. She loves it when I hold her needle right on 80!”
Ate a fishburger and a cheeseburger at McDonald’s before leaving Springfield. Repeated the order at McDonald’s in Joplin and had a big steak dinner at the Standard Truck Stop in Tulsa. I wasn’t exercising, but it took plenty of calories to keep my wind-swept torso warm.
Now that the rain was over the first store I stopped at, Adran’s in Joplin, had rain suits. For $6, I bought overalltype pants with a jacket. I tried one on and kept it on all day as a windbreaker. Thirty-five to 40 degrees is cold on a motorcycle.
Notebook entries: “Checked tires in Joplin. Both down about 5 lb. Bike toppled over against the gas pump. Damm little wing stand no good with a load . . . Lucky I abandoned original plan to go west on 1-80. Joplin weatherman says Nebraska and Colorado have a foot of snow!”
CLEAR LENSES FOR NIGHT
It was dark when I got to Tulsa on the Oklahoma Turnpike, but I decided to push on to Oklahoma City —more turnpike for 88 miles. It was vervy rocketing through the night, splitting the cold, brittle air. But something was wrong with my lights. It took me about 5 min. to realize I still had my green goggles on. I switched to clear lenseswhat a difference!
I slept warm and well that night in my tent and sleeping bag at the Oklahoma City KOA (Kampgrounds of America) for $2.50, which included clean washroom, shower, store, all you need.
Tuesday rolled up cold and sunny. According to the Amarillo Globe-Times it was the coldest October 14 since 1914: 31 degrees. 1 wore everything I had with the rain suit over it, but I still got stiff with the chill before I made the 270-mile hop to Amarillo.
Like all cold-weather BMW riders, I found tucking the feet under those way-out cylinders gives heat. I could feel it through my boots even at 60 mph.
I passed the same bunch of hippy hitchhikers I saw back at Rolla, Mo. They were dancing at an intersection in Erick, Okla., “Home of Roger MillerKing of the Road.” Persistence pays. Here they were, traveling for nothing and ahead of me.
Notebook entry: “Nose burn getting bad. Need to fix nose shield flap onto goggles or something. Hate to see a beak plastered with Noxema.”
A cowboy in a gas station told me the weather for Wednesday would be warmer, in the 60’s. Great! But I still half expected to get caught in a snow storm before I got through New Mexico and Arizona.
Had a great Mexican dinner in Amarillo. Huge platter of enchiladas, tacos, frijoles, rice and dos botellas of Carta Blanca, the great Mexican beer. I found KOA Amarillo, but the rate was $3 and several motel signs were begging me to stop for $4. So I chickened out on camping and took a warm room and bath.
Another perfect day! It was great to be alive that Wednesday morning as I loaded the bike in the warm, rising sun. I was looking forward to the rugged beauty of the real West now-New Mexico, Arizona and California.
Before leaving Amarillo I stopped at a BSA shop on 66 for an oil change. I wanted DA-40 but the shop sold Oilzum. The shop owner said it was great. The poop on the can goes further than that: “Oilzum is the choice of champions. If motors could speak we wouldn’t need to advertise.” Who could argue with bullshit like that?
THE BURGLAR ALARM
A BSA rider from New Orleans told me about a cheap burglar alarm while I was changing my oil. “You see them in variety stores for 98 cents. They’re made in Hong Kong. Little battery/ buzzer to tack up next to doors and windows. If the door is opened it pulls a string and sets the buzzer off. Well, I rigged one up for my bike. Lift the kickstand and it would go off. Used it at a motel in Mobile one night. I parked the bike in front of my room. There was no front window so, to be sure I could hear the buzzer, I left my door open about half an inch. During the night someone took my pants off the chair with $45 in them.”
There was an abrupt change from Panhandle flatness to rugged, mountain terrain just before the New Mexico border. From that point on it was a ride on a magic carpet. The serenely beautiful desert/mountain West has always grabbed me. Absorbing mile after mile of New Mexico’s scenic vastness by motorcycle was pure delight. The only, only way to go !
Notebook entries: “Going up, getting colder. Tucumcari 4089 ft. Santa Rosa 4800 ft. Terrific guacamole salad, enchilada dinner and sopaipillas with honey at Jo & Mary’s Cafe in Santa Rosa. Mary said there was snow at upcoming Cline’s Corners last Sunday, but it had melted . . .
“Finally learned when to shift down to third climbing grades. Know I must have been lugging slightly through Missouri hills. She really perks up in third.”
It was still early when I reached Albuquerque, so 1 chased the falling sun on into Grants, N.M. I got there at dusk and put up at the Milan Motel; no campground signs anywhere.
The sunny mountain air was intoxicating as I crossed the road Thursday morning for bacon and eggs at the Busy Bee Cafe. Shapely young waitress was friendly, but she had a large cold. She said 200 tourists were stranded in Grants for two weeks by a record snowfall a couple of years back. About this time of year, too.
I ate a little faster than usual. I knew a new storm front was expected from the west in 24 hours. I began to fight a fateful feeling I would get snowbound somewhere in northern Arizona and be forced off the road.
COLD IN THE MOUNTAINS
As I rolled on into Arizona there was lots of sun, but ominous cloud dreadnaughts began floating over the horizon toward me in alarming numbers. As I climbed toward Flagstaff it grew very cold. I put on every rag I had including the rain suit. A goose-down jump suit is the only thing for cold-weather biking— this trip convinced me!
The heady, pine-scented air of the Flagstaff pinnacle was delicious to sense, even being blasted at me at 65-75 mph.
The descent from Flagstaff to Winslow was sensational. I kept her between 75 and 80 all the way down. The only thing that passed me was a California chopper with a Hell’s Angel on it. We flipped hands at each other as he slid by. He was bald, fiftyish; taking the cold, cold wind in a T-shirt and “uniform” vest.
I passed him later on the outskirts of Winslow when he stopped to put a jacket on. This helped. I didn’t feel quite as fragile anymore.
I made Kingman, Ariz., about 5 p.m. after dropping down, down still farther from Winslow, like an endless bobsled ride. Talk about grandeur—the memory of those limitless vistas I was treated to that day is still sharp in my mind!
I had a cheese omelette at a cafe I picked because of a parking place in front of the window. I just got served when the manager drew the shades to signify he was closed to additional customers. This bugged me some because I made it a'habit to keep my eye on the bike and the gear. I finally subdued my middle-class, up-tight temptation to run out and put the chain on it.
I cruised out to the Kingman KOA on the east side of town. For $2.50 I had a hot shower and a smooth tent site. It was a great night for desert starlight and sound, sound sleep.
I got off at 9 a.m. Friday morning. Decided not to eat till I got to California. Needles was just 61 miles away. As it turned out I rolled through Needles and didn't stop till Amoy, a tiny oasis on the great desert floor. As I left the cafe, Bob Stone of Barstow asked about my trip. He’s a trail rider, 100-cc Yamaha.
CATCHING NEUTRAL
Luckily, I thought to ask him about the trouble I was having slipping into neutral at stoplights. Catching neutral and getting the approval of the little green light on my speedometer was a sometime thing, 1 out of 10 maybelike catching a greased pig.
“Hell no, don’t bother with neutral at stoplights,” Bob said. “You won’t hurt the clutch by holding her in. Just keep the bike primed and ready to go. Then get off pronto to keep the cars from climbing your back!”
(Editor’s note: holding the clutch in may be the most expedient answer when you can’t grab neutral at a stoplight. However, it’s tiring, and poses a possible problem should the clutch begin grabbing or the clutch cable let go, thus jetting you off into traffic against a red light. A much more acceptable solution to find a recalcitrant neutral is to slip into it, just before the bike comes to a complete stop.)
He also directed me to the best place in Barstow for good, cold beer: the “Noisy Nag.”
A desert headwind became so fierce after Amoy I could only make 50 mph comfortably in third gear! It blasted me pretty good all the way to Boron.
After pie and coffee in Boron, the bike started, but pooped out in 100 yd. She ran another block and pooped again. I pulled off the road, put her on the center stand and dug out the repair manual.
I was checking one of the float bowls when Dale Robertson, a young diesel mechanic, reined up beside me on a new 6 5 0 Triumph. Together we looked things over. The plugs were dry; we had a spark, so the trouble was in the fuel system.
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After 30 min. we had the hike running, but roughly. Dale led the way to a small garage where LaVerne Hall and Jimbo Baghosin were tuning a hot rod. LaVerne dropped everything and tackled my problem. Throttle cable and idling screw adjustments were the answer. For the second time-just like I had rubbed a lamp or something a fellow cyclist had materialized at my side when I needed help. Payment? Forget it. My Boron friends wouldn’t take a cent. The motorcycling fraternity is one hell of a club!
I spent the night in a Boron motel and pursued my westward way on Highway 58 (I left 66 at Barstow) Saturday morning. I fought stiff headwinds all the way to Tehachapi —1 mean fourth gear was useless, especially on the way up the Tehachapi Mountains. The R-50 is a great little bike, but it’s no wind-beater.
"AMERICANA”
It was another dream world glissade down the other side of the mountains into the vast San Joaquin Valley, with miles of cotton and sorghum fields. I passed a hippy-decorated house in Bakersfield bearing a large signboard invitation to “SLEEP WITH HANK!’’
I switched to Highway 99 there and followed it north to 46, about 16 miles. Going west again on 46 I stopped beside a field of ripe, fluffy cotton near Wasco to relax and soak up some of the warm, sunny atmosphere. I topped off the oil level. It was novel having a whole field of Handiwipes to wipe the dipstick.
Thirty-one miles west of Wasco I turned northwest on 33 to Coalinga. From there it was a sinuous ride up and over the Diablo Range on 198 to San Lucas and Highway 101. These low coastal mountains have a weird, dessicated look in the winter months. An unrelieved carpeting of short, beige grasses rides every undulation to the horizon. I had the Kafkaesque feeling of a lone trespasser on some huge, dead golf course.
Sudden relief from this sense of unreality came near lonely Priest Station, a two-or-three-building spot.
I was rounding a downgrade curve at 70 mph when a white-tailed buck and doe raced out of a thicket to my right, headed for a point in the road just ahead of me. The fields on both sides were fenced with barbed wire. The buck spied me first, aborting his take-off over the right-hand fence. He wheeled and returned to the thicket.
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But the delicate doe was committed to the air. She cleared the fence, landed 15 ft. in front of me, covered the road in three bounds and sailed over the fence to my left vanishing like a comet. My brakes made all the difference. The doe’s timing was deadly. If my brakes had failed I would have checked out with the wrong “deer” on my lap.
A homemade sign below Priest Station told me “JUSUS LIES!”
At San Lucas I turned north on I0l. I had another great Mexican meal at a most unlikely place in Soledad-the Greyhound Bus Station.
At Salinas I took a side road seven miles west to the coast and my favorite highway of all the highways 1 have ever been on: California 1, the famous beach route that rides the glittering Pacific shoreline the length of the State.
I wanted to camp at Sunset Beach State Park, but the camp was full. I settled for the beautiful seaside KOA at Watsonville for $3.
I woke in my tent early Sunday morning to a stimulating message on the camp p.a. system: “Good morning you knockabout foresters, you highway pioneers. Breakfast has been in progress for 15 min. Come on, Mr. Sims. How are you, Lt. Governor? The flapjacks are hot and we’ve got real maple syrup. Come and get ’em !”
A ROBIN HOOD IDYLL
A free breakfast! This KOA was on the ball. 1 was ravenous. I stepped out of the tent —into Sherwood Forest. Everybody I met had a green Robin Hood hat on.
The first one I talked to was standing at a urinal in the shower house. Over his shoulder he told me 1 was in the midst of an International Travel Trailer Association campout ... no green hat, no hot pancakes!
Back in the tent, rolling my sleeping bag, I heard girlish voices. I looked out.
1 was surrounded by pretty, pajama-clad girls of the grammar school set —six of them. They appeared like genies out of a bottle to invite me to a pancake breakfast in the trailer next door.
My host at this memorable breakfast was Hal Sower of San Carlos, a friendly physicist about my age. His daughter, Mary Beth, was 10 that day. He was treating her and her friends to a birthday campout.
Hal filled me with pancakes and told me about his work developing laser beams for optical surgery. When my mouth was available for talking again I told him about my trip and the virtues of the BMW.
My ride from Watsonville to San Francisco that sun-fulled Sunday was too much! Really. My joy-of-living level has never run higher than during the two or three leisurely hours 1 soared over the shimmering edge of the Pacific from Watsonville to the Golden Gate.
Down to the surf, up to a craggy promontory, down to the sea again. Fields of lettuce, spinach and artichokes, some running right to the sandy lip of the sea. And pumpkin patches full of fat, golden globes and happy San Franciscans parading up and down the rows to make their selections.
There’s a high point just south of Pacifica that provides a thrilling, tortuous climb to a spectacular view of the ocean.
SOULFUL ROAD
The Sunday parade of choppers and stock bikes streaming out of San Francisco that afternoon was tonic to my cycling soul. A greater road for a Sunday ride 1 never expect to find.
I stopped at Broadmoor for gas and a San Francisco map. And then I was there, fighting my way through the after-game traffic at Kezar Stadium. It was time to try some of those steep-hill stoplights that had been bugging me.
I rode north from the Stadium/ Golden Gate Park area to Balboa Blvd. where 1 turned east and headed for the hilly heart of town. Hillside lights along the way weren't giving me any trouble. In fact, my hill-holding confidence was growing fast. I surmounted Knob Hill, awed, but capably enough, and went on to conquer the high-flying roadway to the base of Coit Tower.
1 was satisfied. Nothing to it but the added pleasure of cycling over steephilled, exciting terrain.
I glided down to Fisherman’s Wharf. I was reflecting on my eight-day accomplishment when I saw a 350 Honda with Japanese plates and a mountain of luggage. The rider, Kohei Iwamoto, was easy to identify in a full leather suit. He was eating at a lunch counter and writing postcards to his friends in Yokohama.
Kohei told me he was on the last lap of a 3 1,000-mile around-the-world t ri p - Yokoha ma, Russia, Europe, United States, Hawaii, Yokohama. He was then on his 215th day and due to sail that week for Hawaii on the President Cleveland.
I commented on his high-wide baggage load. “Big baggage, big tire,” he said. He pointed to his 4.00-18 on the drive wheel. I asked about the 350’s performance on so long a journey. “Thirty-one thousand miles,” he said, “no trouble.”
So there you are-2600 miles or 31,000 on bikes as different in size, design, price as the R50 BMW and the 350 Honda-the range of motorcycle adventure is whatever you want to make it.
