Ditch Day

Ditch Day

UP FRONT

David Edwards

WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, THE tough...go for a ride? There I was, staring clueless at the gaping maw of unrequited whiteness where my monthly column was supposed to be. Outside, Southern California was gripped in the icy tentacles of another sunny, 75-degree winter day. Desert winds had shouldered most of the smog out to sea, revealing a cobalt sky and white, wispy clouds. The rainiest January in years meant the nearby hills were awash in an ocean of emerald green. On the eastern horizon the San Bernardino

Mountains, usually obscured, stood in bold relief, their crestlines highlighted by snow. It’s days like this that make up for the earthquakes, wildfires, mudslides and protracted celebrity trails that SoCal residents are subjected to. Well, days like this and the occasional Pamela Anderson sighting.

So, deadlines be damned, it was time to go for a ride, all day, out in the country. Which bike to take? Of the 15 or so testbikes in the CW garage, Yamaha’s Royal Star spoke to me the loudest. Somewhat surprising, in that I’ve gone on record as being less than captivated by the current retro-cruiser rage. I like my old bikes old and my new bikes new, but there’s no denying the Yamaha’s jaunty charm, especially in Tour Deluxe form with whitewalls, solo seat, hard saddlebags and cop-bike windshield. It’s a motorcycle that begs to be photographed in front of a Beech Staggerwing or a streamlined Raymond Loewy locomotive, which can’t be all bad.

There’s something else going on here, too. It hit me as I laid out my riding gear for the following day’s ride. Jeans, cowboy boots, varsity jacket, gloves, bandana, sunglasses, Shoei half-shell helmet-not exactly a sportbike rider’s suit of lights. But that’s part of cruisers’ appeal: They can be ridden in the gear most of us already have hanging in the hall closet, no $1000 neon leathers, racer-signature helmet or armored, articulated gloves required.

And if cruisers are easy on the wardrobe allowance, they’re also tolerant of less than polished riding skills. This is more important than you might think. Target audience for the Royal Star is the aging army of so-called “re-entry” riders. These are males in their mid to late 40s who rode as teenagers and twentysomethings, but moved away from motorcycling as the urgencies of charting a career and raising a family took precedence. Now, they’re back. But, remember, these guys at one time were accomplished riders-maybe they raced a little motocross, maybe they bombed backroads on a low-barred CB350. Upon their triumphant return to the sport, the last thing they want to be seen as is an ass-up, elbows-out donk wobbler on a 150-mph sportbike. Cruisers, with their low seat heights, spread-out riding positions and easily manageable levels of power, provide the perfect re-entry vehicle.

I was up at 6:30 the next morning, saddling up the Royal Star-hey, this sloughing off is serious business. Sweatshirt. Check. Rainsuit. Check. Extra gloves. Check. First-aid kit. Check. Cell phone. Check. Maps. Check. Water bottle. Check. Tire sealant. Check. Tool roll. Check and double-check.

Maybe it’s because my motley crew of collectibles always seems to need fettling, but I feel positively naked without my tool roll. A multi-pocketed cordura affair from Rev-Pak, it holds a variety of tools, plus hose-clamps, tape, wire, zipties, a tire-plug kit, 15-minute epoxy, a Mini Mag flashlight and a neat Gerber knife/multi-tool. Rolled up and cinched down, it compacts into an easy-to-stow, 8 x 4-inch cylinder, weight about 5 pounds. It’s accompanied me everywhere from Route 66 to the Canary Islands, and I’ve never been sorry to have it along-even if most of the time it’s used to fix other people’s machines, the maladies of which can’t be remedied with their cheesy, potmetal, onboard toolkits.

My route had me heading out Ortega Highway en route to a leisurely breakfast at the Lookout Roadhouse. After settling up, I pointed the Yamaha’s fat fender east toward the hills of rural Riverside and San Diego Counties. Out there, with the Tour Deluxe happily thrumming along isolated two-lanes, wildflowers rushing by, it was hard to believe that little more than two hours away was the steaming metropolis of Los Angeles, population 15 million. This was California as it used to be, unbridled and beautiful. I live in Orange County, whose namesake orange groves long ago gave way to the developer’s bulldozer, making room for housing tracts and strip malls (“Pink Stucco County?”). But south of Hemet, I found myself on a little-used stretch of asphalt that skirted miles of citrus trees. I could idle right up to a branch and pilfer an orange or grapefruit without even leaving the saddle.

Late in the day, I stopped at the glider port near Warner Springs on Highway 79, where I splurged on a $59 ride in a Schweizer 233 sailplane. My pilot was Joe Olszewski, an ex-CZ motocrosser as it turned out, with more than 6000 hours of flight time. From our vantage point 1000 feet aloft, we could see the sun setting and the moon rising, the Pacific Ocean to the west and the Anza-Borrego Desert to the east. I even took the controls for a few minutes, managing not to auger us into the ground, though I did commit a minor faux pas when I asked Joe if he flew “regular” airplanes, too.

“You mean ‘powered’ planes,” he corrected. “No, powered flight is about some sort of mission; you’re always looking to get somewhere. Gliding is about recreation; it’s just for fun. With powered planes, the destination is important. In gliders, it’s the trip-if you know what I mean.”

I did, exactly.

I got home just after 8 p.m., following a dinner stop at a quaint little roadside bistro I know for a repast of tasty Poulet McNuggets and the house specialty, Le Mac Grand. The Yamaha’s tripmeter showed 268 miles. A good day.

Next time, I’ll toss one extra item into the Royal Star’s saddlebags: an overnight kit. After all, the only thing better than one Ditch Day is two of ’em strung together. □ZX