Crazy From the Heat

[Frenchy750]

With its usual annoying *BONG*, a text message from my friend Jessica arrived this past Monday.

"Hey! Got Thursday off. You guys wanna go for a ride?"

This short text from Jessica, of Milk Run Marathon and Death Valley Damsels fame, forced me to start thinking.

A ride?

Go for a ride?

Hmm... That's something I used to do quite regularly. But somehow, after the epic Road to Wrestlemaina ride early this season, other than a few day rides or Milk Runs, my exuberant love of conquering the road and distant lands on two wheels has seemingly ebbed. Sadly, for most of this riding season, Rain Cloud Follows has been parked, all alone, basically shunned, in the garage.

What the **** happened? I'm not really sure.

Maybe, after Dark Meat Snack and I finished our 8000 mile Southwester and Northwestern tour, I was a bit burned out. Maybe its the fact that textsfromlastnight.com has replaced advrider.com as my most-visited website. Maybe the past five years of running around at full speed finally caught up - a reason I immediately dismiss on account of its true meaning, that I am not only becoming a pussy, but *wince* getting older. Finally, I settled on a plausible and acceptable excuse; maybe all the great unridden roads are just too far away now, because in my exuberance, I've ridden all the good, close ones many times.

Then I started thinking harder, always a dangerous condition for me. Have I really ridden ALL the good roads? C'mon now, Mr. Stupid, how could that even be possible? I set out to find out. After tearing myself away from the latest and greatest texts from last night, I performed some exhaustive, work-sponsored research. In this research, I found what I was looking for; one twisted little sliver of interest on the map that I couldn't recall riding, one that, as a bonus, was fairly close to Jessica's house.

*BONG* "Jessica, we're in. Let's ride! See you Thursday!"

Thursday started out the way every Thursday in Southern California does, with bright blue skies and perfect temperatures. My girlfriend Fiona, a.k.a. Sleeping Beauty evidently missed riding as much as I finally realized I did, because she was up early, before me in fact, raring and ready to go.

The San Gabriel Mountains are a very effective natural obstacle between us and Jessica's. There are basically two options, go all the way around them, a distance of about one hundred ten miles, or go straight through them, a shorter, mostly straight, yet very curvy route.

Guess which route we picked.

Jessica and her Ninja, ready to ride.

Jessica met us at a nearby gas station, and, after catching up for a few minutes, we were off, heading north on Route 14 through the hot Mojave desert.

Our first stop of the day was for lunch in the small highway town of Pearsonville, which Fiona more-or-less correctly misinterpreted as 'Prisonville.' I didn't see any houses in this town, and what I did see in this desolate outpost was run down looking and mildly depressing. The FJR thermometer read 106 degrees as we pulled into a Subway, the only restaurant in Prisonville.

Parked and off the hot motorcycles, we were nearly attacked by one of those little hybrid rat-dogs that seem to be every lunatic's requisite accessory. This dog's owner was no exception, a heat-shriveled old woman in a beat up mini-van, with a crazy stare and a cardboard sign on the windshield simply stating, "Need Gas Bad."

She started her ramble saying, "My dog here don't like motorcycles much. Nope." As we tried our best to ignore her, she continued, "Has no real use for machinery at all, really. Good guard dog though, woke me up jus' the other day to warn me 'bout a bear, an honest to God brownie, 'bout a hunnert pounds, in my campground. Damn bear was gonna eat my last sammich, but this old dog scared him away, he did."

We walked away before either the obligatory begging for gas money began, or my foot launched her precious yapping Fido deep into the desert. As we walked inside, her ramble continued, directed at our poor motorcycles. Baking in the desert heat does strange things to people.

Someone must have helped her with her gas need, because she was long gone when we returned from our delicious gourmet meal.

The turn off for Sherman Pass was well hidden, so I led us far past it. Did I mention I was flying blind on this trip, having left my GPS at home? Yup, this ride was undertaken only with a good old-fashioned analog map. Usually I just count on my little Garmin unit to get me lost, which I call 'Going on a Garmin Adventure.' With me and my amazing sense of direction in the lead, we were off on a Garmin adventure all right, just without the Garmin.

Once turned back around, and on the right road, or at least what I thought was the right road, it ceased to matter. Riding is riding, and an adventure is an adventure, and, whatever road we'd found, it was good. The ribbon of pavement snaked and twisted deep into the mountains, leading us high above the desert below.

My trusty analog map, a ten-folder of the entire state of California, was about as useful as socks on a rooster. The road we were on, even if it was marked - which it wasn't - certainly wasn't on my map.

After about fifty miles, this amazing collection of curves dead-ended in, of all things, a campground. Time for the second U-turn of the day!

We headed back to the nearest, and in fact the only intersection, took a chance and made the turn. Noticing a bright red General Store in the nearly non-existant town of Kennedy Meadows, we unanimously decided to stop for a cool, refreshing beverage.

Three old characters sat on the porch, following what appeared to be a very time-worn tradition. Crack open a cold beer, drain it, crack open another one, drain it, then go inside the store and grab an ice cream sandwich, gossiping and bullshitting the entire time. Repeat said procedure for a lifetime.

As we sat in the shade drinking our cold beverages, we naturally eavesdropped. Between wheezing laughs and long swallows of Coors Light, we heard snippets of conversation from one of the permanent porch residents. A question I've always had about people that live in such remote areas - "What the hell do these people do for a living?" was finally answered.

"Yeah, so this guy came right up to me, askin' to see my fields. I couldn't believe it!" After another raspy cough-laugh and another long pull on his beer, the old guy elaborated, "How the hell, I wonder, did this guy all the way from San Francisco find out about my pot crop?"

Mystery solved.

Before leaving, Fiona and Jessica wandered into the General Store Amphitheater in an attempt to take in some more local culture.

Sadly, it was too bright to pull the string to reveal the movie screen and take in a flick or two, and, even sadder, the popcorn stand was closed.

Properly refreshed and highly amused, we got back on the road - if you could call it that. The cracked, weaving asphalt path that led us deeper into the mountains was in desparate need of some federal stimulus money. Large portions of the road were missing, rutted with deep potholes, or covered with washouts and rocks.

As our Garmin-less adventure continued, the road slowly improved, and I slowly started to recognize where we were. Last year Fiona and I, equipped with our GPS, explored these very same roads. And by explored, I mean 'got hopelessly lost for several hours.'

Continuing past the 9200 foot summit, we skirted down the backside of the mountain.

Reaching the intersection at the bottom, I found our position on the map, on the North Fork of the Kern River. We pulled over near the river, intent on taking another little break.

Jessica was happy for the stop. Seemed on the way down the mountain, she managed to get stung in the ankle by an angry bee - a bee which left it's pulsing stinger behind as a gift. She waded into the river to cool off her painful sting.

Being so close to water gave Sleeping Beauty a chance to try out my new camera, which is supposed to be water proof. She immediately plunged the camera into the river and took these photos:

Not bad. We pulled the camera out of the North Fork of the Kern River and tested that it still worked:

Beauty....

... and the Beast.

Yup. Works as advertised!

Refreshed, we continued with our improvised analog route.

Down off the mountain, the temperatures climbed back into the high nineties. As we learned earlier in Prisonville, and had reinforced again in the town of Kernville, the heat does some strange and unexplainable things to people.

This, I think I can explain as being a by-product of too much time in the heat:

This, however, I can't explain at all:

At this point may I just interject that, hot or not, obviously this day was, in fact, the Best Day Ever?!?!

As it always does, the Best Day Ever began to draw to a close, and Sleeping Beauty, Jessica and I soon found ourselves in a race with the rapidly setting sun.

Turning off the exciting Route 178 for the straight, flat and mostly boring Route 14, we found that when the sun sets in the Mojave, the winds pick up. Soon we were hanging on for dear life as hurricane force gusts tried, and, several times, nearly succeeded to blow us off the road.

Making a promise to do this again "real soon", we said goodbye to Jessica and endured the long slog home, taking the long way around the San Gabriel Mountains. Four-hundred eighty miles later, hot, tired and supremely happy, we finally arrived home.

When we walked in the door, Fiona eyes were glowing. I asked her if she was all right. Her response was a complete shock.

"I'm ready. Tomorrow, I want to take my bike," she said, referring to her still brand new and, except for a few laps around the neighborhood basically unridden Ninja 250, "up Azusa Canyon and go on my first Milk Run!"

*Gulp*

To be continued...

 

[fjrboomer]

Frenchy that was a great report and the best part for you I am sure was being accompanied by two very attractive ladies. No wonder it was the best ride ever. Look forward to more of your adventures.

 

[johnny80s]

Another great report Frenchy.

 

[jzzmusician]

Damn Frenchy, you are a hell of a writer!

 

[Niehart]

Ya just make me LOL!

 

[bikerskier]

GREAT ride report! Thank you!

 

[Allnight]

Damn, nice report, nice pics, sounds like nice ride, and nice company.

Congrats!

And good luck tomorrow with the 250!

 

[Frenchy750]

Fiona might believe she's ready to attempt a Milk Run, but the real question was, am I ready for it?

Last Christmas, Santa brought Sleeping Beauty a shiny red Ninja 250, the perfect motorcycle for an enthusiastic beginner to learn on.

And, at first, Fiona was enthusiastic about learning to ride. For about a month, we'd go out and practice; stopping and starting, turning and accelerating, circling her little neighborhood hundreds of times.

A few months later, maybe the novelty had worn off, maybe other interests took the place of riding, who knows? I said from the beginning that Fiona should take learning to ride at her own pace, and while I encouraged her to practice, I never forced the issue, figuring that if and when she felt ready, we'd ride.

Finally, after a great day blasting through mountain passes, carving through perfect turn after perfect turn, and racing along scenic river roads, it was as if a switch suddenly flipped, and that day arrived. My passenger had decided it was time to become a driver.

Rain Cloud Follows and Li'l Red, Young Love Is So Cute

I'm not sure who was more nervous as we performed our pre-ride safety checks the next morning. Suddenly, I understood with absolute certainty the feeling my Mom and Dad had when, at eighteen years old, I wobbled down the street for the first time on my first motorcycle, a 1978 Kawasaki KZ 400.

My First Motorcycle - By Tonka... Err... Kawasaki

At that time, I knew everything. Still do in fact. When I called my friend Keith that morning to tell him about Fiona's impending maiden voyage and how anxious I was, he put it perfectly. "Of course you're nervous, you have the burden of knowledge of all that can go wrong, while she doesn't." Sometimes knowing everything sucks.

Geared up, I couldn't stall any longer. We pulled out of the driveway and, instead of turning left into the safety of her little neighborhood, we turned right towards the wilds of the big, bad streets of my adopted home of Southern California.

I led at first, until Sleeping Beauty told me she wanted to to be in front.

Sleeping Beauty and L'il Red took the lead, which was a good thing. That way she'd never see the wildly panicked terror on my face as she pulled into traffic the very first time.

And... she did it, and did it well! Though I was still petrified, I have to admit I felt a certain amount of pride well up. For the first time ever, Fiona and I were actually riding together!

She led the way to the start of Route 39, better known to me as the 'Milk Run,' stopped at all the lights without problem, never left her turn signal on, and handled L'il Red like she'd been riding for years. I noticed she even waved at other bikes as they passed.

We pulled over for some last minute instructions before carving our way through the San Gabriel Mountains.

"Remember, honey, don't grab that front brake. Squeeze it gently before the corner, then gradually get back on the throttle as you straighten the bike up."

"Got it."

"Try and follow my line through the corners. Set up on the outside, slow down, dive into the apex..."

"OK."

"If faster traffic comes up behind us, let them pass us in a straightaway."

"I will."

"If you think you can't handle this, pull over right away... and..."

"Quit stalling, let's go do this!"

And with that, we did.

Watching her ride her bike in my rear view mirror, my nervousness and anxiety gradually dissipated. She was actually doing it, and doing it well. I never once saw her cross the double yellow, and she stayed right behind me for the entire twenty mile route. I felt comfortable enough to drop back and take a few pictures:

We pulled over, and the smile on her face was electric!

We talked about the ride; what she did right, where she felt uncomfortable and what parts of the road she was comfortable with. I gave her a few little pointers, tips and things to watch out for. At that moment I realized how great it felt to share my so-called 'Burden of Knowledge.'

On a nice, deserted stretch of road, I went on ahead to set up for a photo op. She fired up L'il Red and came racing towards me, 250 cc's of pure unbridled Ninja fury!

She pulled over to wait for me, and learned one of the first lessons, a very important one, a lesson that every beginning motorcyclist (that isn't a liar) has learned: The Natural Resting Position Of A Motorcycle Is On Its Side.

Fiona had parked on a slight incline, and L'il Red decided it was nap time. Fortunately, Sleeping Beauty jumped off before it was too late, and managed to escape injury. L'il Red wasn't as lucky.

Shaken but OK, Fiona learned the second lesson that all new motorcyclists learn: When You Fall Off Your Horse, Or When Your Horse Falls On You, Get Right Back In The Saddle.

Without admitting how I know, let's just say that part of my Burden of Knowledge is I know what it feels like to drop a motorcycle, and I understand what a confidence shaker that can be. To her credit, my girl climbed right back on L'il Red, and wanted to finish the ride.

Her confidence may have been stirred, but it definitely wasn't shaken.

At the bottom of the Milk Run, we pulled over again, making sure this time the ground was level. I didn't know what her mind set would be, but I quickly figured it out.

Heading back through town, an old, grizzled Harley rider pulled up alongside us, long white beard flapping in the breeze. He didn't wave at me (typical) but looked at Fiona, smiled and gave her the biggest thumbs up imaginable. It made her day.

We made it home from our first ride ever, a little scratched up but basically OK. Fiona was so happy and excited, she couldn't stop smiling, already panning our next day's ride.

She had one more lesson to learn that day, If You Break It, You Fix It. She didn't want to leave L'il Red with a broken turn signal (because she wanted to go riding again the next day) so we drove down to the dealership and picked up a new turn signal, which she insisted on installing herself.

With everything repaired and ready to ride another day, Fiona and I held up a hearty toast to what could only be described as the Best Day Ever.

 

[Niehart]

Pretty damn cool!

 

[beemerdons]

Frenchy750: Outstanding Ride Report, THX! Sure have talented moto-journalists and photographers here on our FJR Forum!

 

[Texan]

Outstanding journalism.

I recall the first ride with my wife as a rider. It was a bittersweet mixture of sharing the thrill of riding with my honey combined with the terror of that knowing that the best day ever could quickly become unimaginably horrific.

Keep 'em coming. You're one of the best writers on this forum.

 

[RICLET]

Thank you for two great reports. I found myself smiling and laughing throughout.

Without sounding critical Sleeping Beauty had a lot of safty gear on--- except for her feet, maybe you can take her shopping for some proper riding footware

Enjoy your rides, I along with many others look forward to your next adventure.

 

[Frenchy750]

When we rode up Azusa Canyon, one of Fiona's first comments was, "If you post pictures, you're gonna catch a lot of shit because I'm in jeans and sneakers, aren't you?"

Catch shit I did, and I made sure she read each and every comment.

So, yesterday was a busy day for us, as Sleeping Beauty and I did our part to re-stimulate the economy. We went to Burt's Mega-Mall in search of boots, pants and better gloves, a quest started with two simple mandates:

My mandate - All new gear must be protective.

Fiona's mandate - All new gear must be 'cute.'

At Burt's we ran into the same problem we always run into. No, not insanely pushy salespeople, we've learned to dodge and weave around them pretty effectively. The problem is there just isn't much good, protective and cute riding gear available for inseam-challenged women.

So, we left Burt's, and the search continued at Cycle Gear in Corona. Ahh, Corona. Just the name of that town makes me thirsty. Anyway, Cycle Gear had a much better selection. A half hour and a swipe that nearly melted the credit card later, Sleeping Beauty was the proud owner of new protective riding boots, pants and gloves.

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall... You Need to be Cleaned!

Were they cute? Err...

At Least One Mandate Was Met

Cute or not, at least her new gear will, in the event of an unexpected high-speed dismount, protect her better than some ratty Converse All-Stars will.

And, with Sleeping Beauty now completely bitten by the riding bug, this new gear will see a LOT of use.

 

[madmike2]

What a great story, sir, you've made my Sunday morning!

Congratulations to both of you...on many levels and subjects. :clapping:

Graduating from pillion to co-rider: Priceless! :yahoo:

 

[CAJW]

Nice report and good for you on the new gear. I'd appreciate a few side view shots of the Ninja in motion, my Mrs. says it wouldn't be a good starter bike for her due to the leaned over riding position. I countered in that the FJR has about the same forward lean as does the Ninja. Prove me right so I can get her one and get on with her training!

 

[Frenchy750]

Someone on pashnit.com commented on the Kawasaki KZ 400 picture that I posted above. My picture sent him on a pleasant trip down memory lane. Well, his comment sent me on my own trip down that pleasant avenue, and, in the interest of keeping this thread alive, I wrote this long-winded response:

Way back in 1988 I bought my first motorcycle, a 1978 Kawasaki KZ 400, for $600. For me at the time, this purchase represented my life savings; everything I earned mowing lawns, shoveling snow, babysitting, and the odd paying band gig or two.

At the time, while other kids were sneaking copies of Playboy and Penthouse around, along with Modern Drummer, I'd sneak copies of Motorcyclist and Cycle World into my bedroom. In my house, motorcycles were considered dangerous contraptions of death and dismemberment, completely forbidden.

Driving to and from band practice, I'd pass that sad looking motorcycle with the For Sale sign on it. The bike sat there for months, unpurchased, silently calling me. I knew there was no way my Mom and Dad would allow me to have a motorcycle, so I waited for that magical day when I could make my own decisions, the day I turned eighteen and became "an adult" (I still am waiting for the "adult" part.)

Upon reaching the age of consent, I withdrew everything I'd amassed from my bank passbook, borrowed a banged-up helmet, had a friend drive me over, made a deal and officially became a motorcycle owner. Having no idea how to ride a motorcycle never bothered me until I got on the thing and tried to ride home. The gods of riding smiled on my naiveté that day, and, though I had a few close calls, I arrived home alive.

I arrived home alive to a crying Mom (expected) and a strangely smiling Dad (unexpected). When I took Fiona on her first real ride the other day, I got a taste of my Mom's angst, and at that moment, I knew; I completely understood, what my Mom, seeing her son riding home on a dangerous motorcycle, must have been going through. Ah, the things kids unknowingly do to their parents.... Payback and all that I guess.

My sweet KZ had no rear turn signals, a fact that took me about a month to realize. The bike had wires back there, but the signals were missing. I called the gentleman I bought the bike from to inquire about the missing turn signals, and he offered to sell them to me for $50. I had to borrow the money for them. (I was such a shrewd businessman back them!) My Dad helped me figure out a way to install them, and after a few hours, a drill, soldering iron and and some duct tape, I had four working turn signals.

In the meantime, I took and passed the MSF safety course, mowed more lawns and bought a new, ridiculously expensive full-face helmet, and set out to learn to ride this motorcycle around my town, one mile at a time. My fondest memory of my little KZ 400 was when I took my then-girlfriend all the way to an amusement park about twenty miles away. At the time, this was quite an achievement, riding on the highway, and putting in about forty miles round trip, my longest ride to date. Of course, in a case of dramatic foreshadowing for nearly every long distance ride that would follow, it rained the whole way home.

My least fond memory of that little KZ 400 was crashing it in an intersection on the way home from work. I took a different route home, because I wanted to stop by a motorcycle shop and see about getting a brighter headlight for my ride. I came to an intersection (an intersection that has since been redesigned, I vainly like to think thanks to me) and was faced with the classic worst case scenario: the old woman in the other lane, waiting to turn left. I was still a brand new, wet-behind-the-ears tadpole rider, with exactly, I shit you not, 666 miles I'd put on the odometer, and I made the classic worst case assumption - that she could see me.

She didn't. She turned. I panicked. I locked up the front brake and BOOM! I was one with the asphalt. My new full-face helmet was scraped and scratched pretty bad, my favorite leather riding jacket was torn and scraped up, as were my elbows and hands, but, at the very least I was alive and more or less intact. The bike suffered a little, but not too much. The old woman would later say to me, "I thought I had plenty of time to turn. That's why I always tell my grandkids that motorcycles are so dangerous."

I replied, "They're only dangerous because of drivers like you!" There may have been a few more colorful words included in my response, but realistically, I was just happy to be able to reply at all. The ambulance driver that checked me over said pretty much the same, filling my head with graphic visuals of some of the more tragic motorcycle wrecks he'd seen in his day.

My brother came to get me in my pickup truck, and, through sheer anger alone, we were able to hoist that bike in the back of the truck without a ramp. I wanted to get home before Mom did, but I'd already used up my favors from the motorcycling gods that day. She was home from work early that day. Great.

Seeing the bike in the back of the truck, Mom cried even harder. I may have been naivé, but I understood danger pretty well. I parked the motorcycle for good. Though I would still go out and look under the tarp at the old KZ from time to time, I never thought seriously about riding it again.

'For good' lasted about, oh, I dunno... four years.

Eventually, I got that bike running again, and rode it again, just to prove to myself that I could. Well, that, and the fact that once bitten by the motorcycling bug, that desire to ride never completely goes away. I found that riding was still fun, and started saving up for my dream bike, a Harley Heritage Softail Classic. To help the Harley fund grow, I sold my first motorcycle to a vehicle-less friend for $650. (Along with my riding skills, my business skills had improved a little.)

As time passed, I lost touch with that friend, and that bike. A Honda Shadow, a Suzuki Katana, a Harley Heritage Softail Classic, a Hayabusa, a BMW Dakar and a Yamaha FJR have all, at one time or another, in their own way taken the place of that little KZ 400, though none have replaced the space in my heart that my first motorcycle will always own.