Tales of A Big-Rig Rookie
Tales of a Big-Rig Rookie
Good company, scenic grandeur and breakfast with the barely living
PETER EGAN
“Sounds like a fun trip,” I said when Paul Dean called to invite me along on this comparison test. “I’ve never ridden any of these big touring bikes. I’ve never even sat on a modern, six-cylinder Gold Wing. I think the only Gold Wing I’ve ever ridden was a worn-out 1000, way back in the late Seventies.”
“Really?” Paul asked, after a suitable pause for astounded reflection.
“Alas,” I replied.
Some of us are well-rounded; others are cam-shaped, with sport-touring and dirt/adventure bikes at the fat end of the lobe. When a motorcycle exceeds about 650 pounds, I generally cross over to the used car lot and start looking at Miatas and Corvettes. In a motorcycle shop, I tend to walk past really big bikes as if they were invisible. My retinas don’t absorb them.
That was soon to change, by necessity. I’d have 2500 miles and five days on the road to sharpen my focus. And maybe get better rounded.
I flew out to Southern California with my Egyptian-mummy-sized duffle bag loaded with every form of weather gear-all of which I would need on this late-autumn trip. And on a Monday morning, Paul, Beau Pacheco and I rolled out of Newport Beach’s cool coastal fog and sped toward the Nevada border into the clear, dry sunshine of the high desert, turning left toward Death Valley.
Riding with Paul was his girlfriend, Rosanne, our only pillion passenger on the tour and a woman who would soon earn our undying respect because she: a) never complained about anything: and b) rode without apparent terror behind Paul, whose cornering speed is limited only by the outer frontiers of tire technology and the world supply of adrenaline. Even in the rain.
Our first leg was unrelenting, all the way across California in one fell swoop, and I would not have enjoyed it on, say, my Ducati ST4S. Or most other bikes. But on the Gold Wing (my first mount in our continual rotation), I didn’t mind the distance. I sat upright and comfortable, protected from the wind, pondering the landscape with a euphoric detachment. In the twisty bits, the big Honda swept through corners with an ease that made it feel shrunken by at least a third. It was not only easy to ride but actually fun, thanks partly to that big flat-Six, a smooth, bottomless well of torque and power all engine speeds. This thing moves.
When we traded bikes, Paul asked me what I thought. “It’s the Supersonic Scooter,” I said.
The BMW also proved to be a grand conveyance, but the seat and high pegs didn’t fit my lanky, ruggedly handsome frame quite as well. My back quickly began to hurt, and I was soon brewing a deadly cocktail of ibuprofen and Diet Mountain Dew at gas stops. This is mostly a personal problem, as I have a ridiculously bad lower back and probably should be shot.
Nonetheless, the BMW handles brilliantly and is the most sportbike-like of the bunch. It has a smooth, willing engine, as well, but lacks the effortless punch of the Honda or the charisma of the Harley.
I liked the Harley better. It was easier on my back-once I reinstalled the snap-in rider backrest that Beau had removed. It felt smaller, shorter and more nimble in slow maneuvers than either of the other two-more like a traditional motorcycle and less like a scientific solution to a set of transportation problems. Its 103-inch engine also delivers a nice, satisfying wallop when you roll the throttle on, and sounds good.
It contains some styling and ergonomic silliness, though. It’s easily the coldest, wettest bike here on a stormy day, and putting decorative chrome strips on the handgrips may be the oddest misuse of shiny metal in all of motorcycling. Still, I was always glad to get on this bike; it was fun, torquey, reasonably nimble and bristling with personality. My enthusiasm abated only when Paul told me the Harley’s price-about $33,000. “In terms of function,” I noted in my logbook, “that extra $12,000 almost catapults the bike to adequacy.”
So these were the motorcycles we traded back and forth. I was always happiest to be on the Honda, perfectly content (but skeptical) on the Harley and slightly uncomfortable on the BMW, though pleasantly distracted by its superb handling. But for all their differences, what these bikes uniformly provided was the ability to cover long distances through stunning scenery without leaving us shellshocked with fatigue at the end of the day.
And that scenery was memorable. Having been away from California for a few years, I’d almost forgotten that it has enough natural grandeur-and demographic variety-to make about four states. We swung through the balmy, crystalline air of Death Valley, up through the Owens Valley, where so many Westerns were filmed (even as their ranch water was being stolen for the swimming pools of Hollywood), past the otherworldly, alkaline beauty of Mono Lake and up to snow-capped Mammoth Mountain, where I used to ski. And fall down~
We crossed from the northeastern high desert near Alturas over to Mt. Shasta, through the redwoods and then down the Coast Highway through Ft. Bragg, Mendocino, San Francisco, Big Sur, past the Hearst Mansion to Morro Bay, and finally home. A big loop, with more impressions than one low-wattage human brain can absorb.
Most of those impressions were the result of the scenery, but some also were derived from the diverse assortment of people we met along the way-jovial coffee-shop waitresses, hotel clerks more knowledgeable than most travel agents, even a couple of servicestation attendants who actually seemed to provide...service.
But none left an impression so deep and lasting as the denizens of a small-town café near Mt. Shasta, where we stopped for breakfast on a chilly (35-degree) morning. The five of us (Paul, Beau, Rosanne, photographer Brian Blades and I) walked in, sat down and immediately realized there was no heat in the place; you could literally see your breath. When the waitress, who had the appearance and demeanor of a cadaver, came to our table, I asked if they were having some kind of heating problem, but she completely ignored me, plopped down a few menus and walked away. The oddly detached local patrons didn’t seem to notice the absence of heat; they sat at separate tables in short-sleeved shirts, drinking coffee mechanically like robots. No one spoke and everyone stared straight ahead, gazing catatonically out the front window, as if waiting for a solar eclipse.
Before long, this infectious party atmosphere had us wheezing with uncontrollable laughter. When our grim, silent waitress brought Rosanne some undercooked oatmeal and placed it in front of her with a loud clunk, we started wheezing again, our eyes filled with helpless tears of mirth. Paul began referring to the place as “the Café of the Living Dead,” and I proposed a screenplay in which a guy realizes his town is being taken over by zombies when he notices that no one is sensitive to cold.
We talked and laughed about that incident for the rest of the trip-proving that even bizarre experiences can provide cherished memories. Fun is where you find it.
Same with these bikes. They’re all still a little big for my tastes, but I’ve come to see them as real motorcycles—fast, fun and surprisingly easy to handle on the backroad paradise of the Sierra Nevada. My vision has cleared and I actually perceive them in motorcycle shops now. Especially the Honda Gold Wing.
It’s not just the Supersonic Scooter. It’s also the Ritz. n
