Form Sea To Salton Sea
FORM SEA TO SALTON SEA
Henry N. Manney III
As Designated Olde Farte around the office 1 sometimes have an offer to try the latest Basura 450 on a trip to lunch (three blocks) and back (another three blocks) but it is a rare occurrence to try anything over longer distances. Some times I wonder what Vucci is talking about when he natters on and ON about the latest big road bike as to me, road bikes are something to go on the road with and not necessarily for doing wheelies or dodging Cadillacs. Furthermore, my idea of a good road bike is a flathead VL Harley (of which I had several) which keeps running with little or no maintenance and isn't afflicted with whirling Oriental dervishes in the sparks department, interlocks that keep it from starting if a series of fiddly tasks isn't performed in strictly numerical order, and chassis seemingly made from salvage conduit dredged up from the bottom of Truk lagoon. Bloody hell; if you want endless trouble you just get married, right?
Anyway Mr. Editor Girdler thought up this simple little expotition which involved four more or less current upper mid-range bikes on a run to the Saltón Sea and back, a simple idea all right which developed into eight bods, seven bikes of which three were hors concours, and the CW van (also known as the Whale) which acted mostly as a mobile refreshment bin. All the extra flesh ran against Mr. Editor Girdler’s grain as he envisaged a chummy little trip packing our luggage on the back and perhaps sleeping under the stars as the Indians (or the Motor Maids, for that matter) used to do. Fortunately wiser heads prevailed; as much as I agree with M.E.G. in principle, it is nice to take some clean clothes without worrying about the Bungee Cord Demon turning loose of said clothes and in spite of six bikes being behind you, nobody saw a thing, right? Also the first morning of our intrepid voyage down Cal 79 behind Mt.
Palomar found us traveling in dense cloud base which set all and sundry, besides scrambling for anything impermeable, wondering about weather conditions on the other side. We needn’t have worried as it never rains in Southern California. And the Tooth Fairy . . .
As you may read in the actual article in another part of the forest, we were testing four 750s of which one was an 800, to use an Irishism, plus Kawasaki’s idea of a 650 chopper, a Kaw 1000, and a massive lOOOcc BMW “dresser” as rag carrier and K-constant to keep everyone honest. Lovely, what with all those nice clean motorcycles and it would have been lovelier if (1) everybody had gotten to the starting point on time (2) if the photographer hadn’t arrived short of film. Of course a trip of this type, judging by Road & Track ones, always make a nonsense out of logistics as the boy racers keep screaming off down the road when it would be nice if they stuck around for pictures. Barring that we are waiting around wondering what cliff they went down when they were only looking at the cliff they went down last time or almost went down this time when they forgot to put the prop stand up. Sort of like kindergarten. At any rate an interested observer may look at the route/ time schedule and say well I could do that in an hour on my Electra Glide; so he could if he doesn’t have to reckon on coffee stops for eight people, pipi stops ditto, knife and fork food stops ditto plus of course the endless poncing about that comes from taking photos. In the days when I used to take pictures (murmurs of “with Matthew Brady?”) one pretty well got the job done with one roll as more than that tends to confuse the Art Department; now there are motor drives etc. and photographers feel positively deprived if they don’t shoot 45 rolls before lunch. All this wastes time to those of us who like to ride although the fashion plates on the magazine acting as models have a different view, naturally! Even colour coded to the bikes yet. Sheesh.
Riding of course is the name of the game, to coin a phrase, and eventually we got out into some sunshine on the descent to Anza Borrego State Park. We had been swopping bikes around and at this point I was on the Yamaha Triple, ostensibly a handy machine as it is fairly narrow and pretty stiff with its mags on those fast dOwnhill sweepers. Actually I didn't get all that comfortable as whether it was the non-compliant sUspension. the ribbed frOnt tire or the whalebone swiOg arm beloved of Japanese motorcycle designers, my progress on the ribbed asphalt became a series of sawtooth maneuvers. While Kenny Roberts has never come up to me and said may I have your autograph, I have gotten in some riding time since 1943 and in any case either of the BMWs or, for that matter, the big Kazoo or 750 Suzuki kept my mind from dwelling on what the orthopedic surgeon was going to say this time. Anyway if there is anything better than standing around in the desert sun. looking at the pretty flares and gradually shedding layers of weather-proofing, it is riding under the desert sun (not in Au gust!) with the visor halfway up wondering hoW the pioneers ever had the guts to come up through here on a mule in the first place. We also had fun pointing out to our resident desert racers likely routes for en duros (straight down that cliff and through the ocotillo) and they also had fun at the stops telling us embroidered stories about taking some Sierra Clubber on a run and pointing out where they absolutely de stroyed some beauty spot spinning donuts. created a sail-turtle, or filled un a charming little desert well with empty beer cans. Griewe was very good at doing Sierra Clubbers turning purple. Speaking of des ert racers, our two most committed desert folks, having expressed a good deal of resistance to riding road bikes in the first place, became absolutely enamoured of the two BMWs and refused to be parted from them. Which just proves of course that quality suspension always tells and a few thousand laps of homework around the Nurburgring makes for a proper chas sis. BMWs aren't perfect, as evinced by the world's worst side stand for one thing, but there is a difference between doing 90 feeling like 45 as opposed to doing 45 feeling like 90.
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We spent the night in Salton City, a garden spot chiefly remarkable for its in discriminate use of a year's production of telephone poles, and last instructions were to get up at dawn so that Monkton could get some pretty dawn shots. I stuck my head out at dawn, and it was pretty, but no other bodies were to be seen. Eventually all hands struggled up and after a proper breakfast (there is always someone who wants to "have breakfast down the road") we fixed a Honda shock which had come unscrewed and set off. Desert Rat Hansen had looked at the clouds and suggested an alternate route to keep dry so we scooted up along the side of the Salton Sea and then up Painted Canyon for more photos. I had finally got my hands on the the big Beemer with its fairing etc. and felt very much cossetted listening to bugs bombard the windscreen. The thousand is a mar velous contrivance as one whiffles along in practically silence thinking nice thoughts about how jolly it is not having to worry about the chain hitting you in the back of the head and who needs an automatic transmission and I could o to Seattle on this nice big tank. Just about that time we whistled around a corner to find it all covered with sand, gravel. etc. and the ghost of George Meier saved me as the whole outfit slid sideways about six inches but never lost its aplomb. All in all I like
the 800 better as it is smoother and not so monstrously over-geared but you have to admire their style.
It was getting grayer and grayer and we scuttled off toward Joshua Tree Nat'! Mon ument where we commenced to get spits of rain. Unlike in other less fortunate areas, the traveler here can see rain squalls 40 miles away and so there was a general wrapping up in pliofilm, like leftovers for the icebox. In the oêcasional bright spot Tony was making runs for the photogra pher and sort of chased him out into the jumping cholla, which speedily brought forth a smiling Vucci with needlenose pliers as who wants to ride with cholla spines in the anatomy? Remarks from sympathetic members of the audience about dirty shorts, white hairy legs and blood poisoning added to the festive atmo sphere, of course. After a detour for lunch during which I found that the Suzuki is much better than it looks, the rain com menced in earnest and if there is anything I hate worse than riding in the rain it is riding in the snow. Accordingly down the road there was a partial scrubbing of the mission with a few diehards going back up into the gray puckey around Hemet and others, whether because of infirmity, time schedules or blown taillight bulbs, scut tling home on the freeway. No heroes we. but we got aired out, had a marvelous time. Read the results.
