James Burleigh
Well-known member
Saturday morning. Slept in. None of this getting up at the crack of dawn to go riding for me. You don’t get to look this good and get up early—it’s one or the other. Look at Old Michael, who gets up at 4:30 to go riding. End of discussion.
Night before checked the tire pressure and cleaned the mirrors. Even got down on my hands and knees to check the oil. Couldn’t see a f**kin’ thing in the dim garage. “Looks fine.” Attached my radar detector, RayBan glasses case, and car compass to the Velcro on my dashboard. Packed some stuff in the Givi trunk, essentials like sunblock, granola bars, and an electric drill. Good to go.
Left home for the lunch rendezvous at about 11 AM. Got there at 11:40. Hycle was there. Had already put his name in. Good man. Thinks on his feet. (Though to be honest I think he’s wrong about the dog. The things we do for our wives, like listen to how their day went or drive all around to dog shows all the time with their Alsatian Squirrel-Biter Terriers. Lord almighty!)
* * *
Soon bikes started to show up. By the time we sat down to breakfast there were seven in all: Jaime Burleigh, Hycle, MidLifeFJR, BikeEffects, DrRich, Mr./Ms. Ric-in-Sac, and Mr./Ms. Bluestreak. Then Ms. BlueStreak, looking through the window into the parking lot from our table, said, “Hey, there’s another bike.” We all looked out the window, thinking, “Oooooh, look, an FJR” (what’s wrong with us anyway?).
We watched the rider pull his ‘06 into a stall, then get off and start to get his gear off. Soon we resumed our talking. When we looked up again the rider was all suited up again, back on his bike repositioning it.
“I think it’s PainMan,” someone said.
“That explains it.”
After breakfast back in the parking lot I climbed up on a bench and made a speech about how the leads are only for closers. After I was sure everybody understood the thing about the leads, I gave the pre-ride report: “Everybody follow me!. Any questions? Good. Mount up!”
And with that display of leadership we were off on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. But not before the group spontaneously surged forward, lifted me onto their shoulders like a triumphant matador, and marched me three times around the bench singing:
Hooray for Jimmy Burleigh!
The master organizer!
[“I’m not a Squirrel Biter!”]
Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!
* * *
About a mile down the road from lunch I suddenly pulled the group into a parking lot because I forgot to put my earplugs in, and of course you can’t ride without earplugs because of the f**king worthless V-Stream windscreen I have! But I was ride leader so I could do whatever I wanted. They would follow me anywhere. Suckers. “Hmmm…,” I thought. “This could be interesting: San Francisco Bay is just over the hill.” I stored that thought away for another ride and got us all out of the parking lot, each bike executing a tight U-turn that a CHP moto-cop would admire.
With the earplugs now in, we rode up this here beautiful valley with the wineries and fields of grapevines on either side stretching away from the road to the distant hills. But nobody noticed because the road was all that mattered with those lovely curvy bits and new-laid blacktop.
Man oh man! Fifteen minutes out and we were already in the groove, pushing those bars left and right to enter high, kiss the apex, and exit low with a smooth throttle roll-on that lifted the bike and carried us forward. We were each of us alone in our gear on our bikes but yet linked like sparkling silver, blue, and burgundy jewels on an asphalt thread. Linked by the asphalt but also by the common joy felt and understood only by motorcyclists and perhaps a child on a roller coaster (and probably a Squirrel Biter sticking its head out the car window on the freeway). And we were riding a pace that, dare I say it, even RsvlFJR would have been pleased (okay, never mind; but he can have a lead).
* * *
Going up over the hill into Napa we got caught behind our first cage. I had only one bike behind me that I could see at that point, but wasn’t sure who it was because about three riders were wearing a dreary gray jacket and not the cool blue and black racing leathers like I was. It was either Hycle, MidLifeFJR, or BikeEffects. I wondered if everyone else besides me and Drab Gray Jacket Man behind me had blown a turn back in the valley and all wound up on the side of the road on their cell phones; but hey, that’s what you get for not signing up for Keith Code’s Superbike School. So we kept going.
When I got my opportunity I [safely, sanely, legally] passed the cage in a burst of throttle. Just as I crossed back over into my lane I felt the compressed air and engine roar next to me of what seemed like a 747, and my brain cried out “F**k! Turns out it wasn’t a 747, just the guy behind me on the feejer who I guess wanted to go out ahead of me and passed me rather tightly. Okay. That’s cool. I know I’m a slow clod when it comes to riding an FJR in the twisties. So I watched him disappear ahead of me into the downhill decreasing-radius turns as if he knew these roads…. Hold on! “Knew these roads…..” “Damnit, BikeEffect! You almost killed me!”
When we came off the mountain BikeEffects let me get in front again (no leads for him), and then in my mirror I watched as one by one the single headlights of six bikes slipped off the mountain to tighten up behind me. I pulled over to the paved shoulder on the Silverado Trail to give us all a chance to re-group. Then I pulled out just as a pickup truck was pulling even to the end of our line. So sue me.
Silverado Trail is 26 miles of touristy two-lane, 60-MPH highway going north through the beautiful Napa Valley. It’s pretty but full of tourists. So you have to relax and wait for the broken-yellow passing zones. I waited, mostly. But after a few passes I noticed everyone behind me wasn’t remembering the pre-ride directive to follow me. *******.
* * *
When we got to Calistoga, we continued north on 29, a major throughway packed with cars and trucks that takes you over the mountain to Middletown and points north. That section of highway 29 is the Roller Coaster: First you go uphill and then you go downhill. And all along the way it twists and turns like the Matterhorn at Disneyland. On top of that it’s one lane in each direction except for a passing lane every mile or so. So when you get to a passing lane you just freakin’ nail that throttle to get ahead of the vehicles that pulled into the slower-traffic lane to the right, but you are flying like Nicki Hayden down the grandstand straightaway and better be damned good on the brakes because that is a very tight right- or left-hand corner you are accelerating into.
Recalling BikeEffect’s grabbing the lead earlier because that was his patch and he wanted to be able to open it up, I signaled for him to go ahead of me as we turned right from the Silverado Trail onto 29. Soon I was marveling at his prowess and audacity as he blasted past the cars in the passing lane then decelerated and flicked the bike into the next turn. I followed, forgetting my loved ones, applying lessons learned at the Reg Pridmore track school and second reading of Twist of the Wrist II.
On one right-hander when I was leaned over to the point where my right peg was bouncing and scraping against the rough pavement and forcing my boot to bounce off it, suddenly around the other way comes a cement mixer the size of Texas! “Oh man I’m gonna die!” So I just looked through the turn and rolled on more throttle, and dived into the next turn and the next and the next, all the way up one side and down the other of that crazy roller-coaster mountain because all that mattered in that moment was that road and that bike and the sensation that I had mastered the two.
* * *
Because of the siren allure of this Matterhorn that could cause a man to abandon his family for the sake of a fleeting moment of pleasure, I was concerned that surely one of our egos must have “written a check his skills couldn’t cash.” So I was pleased to count eight bikes when we pulled into the parking lot at our scheduled stop in Middletown for a rest and some nourishment before the final leg of our ride.
From Middletown we headed southeast toward Lake Berryessa. I wasn’t familiar with the roads, so I had put some tankbag tearsheet directions together. Didn’t matter. I missed a couple of turns and dragged the group in the wrong direction. But that was all right because you couldn’t find a bad motorcycle road out there.
But when BikeEffects figured I was flying without a compass, he took charge (this was still his patch) and led us out of the wilderness. We stopped at the spot where he meets fellow riders for breakfast on Sunday mornings. By now it was after 4PM. We chatted for a bit among ourselves and with some of the sport bike riders we met there.
One by one we each mounted up, said good-bye to those remaining, and headed off. By the time the sun neared the horizon, eight bikes--eight solitary silver, blue, or burgundy jewels--moved toward different points of the compass on their way home, each rider feeling the same deep glow of the satisfaction gained from the camaraderie of a shared joy.
Mr. and Ms. RicInSac:
L to R: Ms. Bluestreak, Hycle, Bluestreak, Painman, MidLifeFJR, Dr.Rich:
Night before checked the tire pressure and cleaned the mirrors. Even got down on my hands and knees to check the oil. Couldn’t see a f**kin’ thing in the dim garage. “Looks fine.” Attached my radar detector, RayBan glasses case, and car compass to the Velcro on my dashboard. Packed some stuff in the Givi trunk, essentials like sunblock, granola bars, and an electric drill. Good to go.
Left home for the lunch rendezvous at about 11 AM. Got there at 11:40. Hycle was there. Had already put his name in. Good man. Thinks on his feet. (Though to be honest I think he’s wrong about the dog. The things we do for our wives, like listen to how their day went or drive all around to dog shows all the time with their Alsatian Squirrel-Biter Terriers. Lord almighty!)
* * *
Soon bikes started to show up. By the time we sat down to breakfast there were seven in all: Jaime Burleigh, Hycle, MidLifeFJR, BikeEffects, DrRich, Mr./Ms. Ric-in-Sac, and Mr./Ms. Bluestreak. Then Ms. BlueStreak, looking through the window into the parking lot from our table, said, “Hey, there’s another bike.” We all looked out the window, thinking, “Oooooh, look, an FJR” (what’s wrong with us anyway?).
We watched the rider pull his ‘06 into a stall, then get off and start to get his gear off. Soon we resumed our talking. When we looked up again the rider was all suited up again, back on his bike repositioning it.
“I think it’s PainMan,” someone said.
“That explains it.”
After breakfast back in the parking lot I climbed up on a bench and made a speech about how the leads are only for closers. After I was sure everybody understood the thing about the leads, I gave the pre-ride report: “Everybody follow me!. Any questions? Good. Mount up!”
And with that display of leadership we were off on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. But not before the group spontaneously surged forward, lifted me onto their shoulders like a triumphant matador, and marched me three times around the bench singing:
Hooray for Jimmy Burleigh!
The master organizer!
[“I’m not a Squirrel Biter!”]
Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!
* * *
About a mile down the road from lunch I suddenly pulled the group into a parking lot because I forgot to put my earplugs in, and of course you can’t ride without earplugs because of the f**king worthless V-Stream windscreen I have! But I was ride leader so I could do whatever I wanted. They would follow me anywhere. Suckers. “Hmmm…,” I thought. “This could be interesting: San Francisco Bay is just over the hill.” I stored that thought away for another ride and got us all out of the parking lot, each bike executing a tight U-turn that a CHP moto-cop would admire.
With the earplugs now in, we rode up this here beautiful valley with the wineries and fields of grapevines on either side stretching away from the road to the distant hills. But nobody noticed because the road was all that mattered with those lovely curvy bits and new-laid blacktop.
Man oh man! Fifteen minutes out and we were already in the groove, pushing those bars left and right to enter high, kiss the apex, and exit low with a smooth throttle roll-on that lifted the bike and carried us forward. We were each of us alone in our gear on our bikes but yet linked like sparkling silver, blue, and burgundy jewels on an asphalt thread. Linked by the asphalt but also by the common joy felt and understood only by motorcyclists and perhaps a child on a roller coaster (and probably a Squirrel Biter sticking its head out the car window on the freeway). And we were riding a pace that, dare I say it, even RsvlFJR would have been pleased (okay, never mind; but he can have a lead).
* * *
Going up over the hill into Napa we got caught behind our first cage. I had only one bike behind me that I could see at that point, but wasn’t sure who it was because about three riders were wearing a dreary gray jacket and not the cool blue and black racing leathers like I was. It was either Hycle, MidLifeFJR, or BikeEffects. I wondered if everyone else besides me and Drab Gray Jacket Man behind me had blown a turn back in the valley and all wound up on the side of the road on their cell phones; but hey, that’s what you get for not signing up for Keith Code’s Superbike School. So we kept going.
When I got my opportunity I [safely, sanely, legally] passed the cage in a burst of throttle. Just as I crossed back over into my lane I felt the compressed air and engine roar next to me of what seemed like a 747, and my brain cried out “F**k! Turns out it wasn’t a 747, just the guy behind me on the feejer who I guess wanted to go out ahead of me and passed me rather tightly. Okay. That’s cool. I know I’m a slow clod when it comes to riding an FJR in the twisties. So I watched him disappear ahead of me into the downhill decreasing-radius turns as if he knew these roads…. Hold on! “Knew these roads…..” “Damnit, BikeEffect! You almost killed me!”
When we came off the mountain BikeEffects let me get in front again (no leads for him), and then in my mirror I watched as one by one the single headlights of six bikes slipped off the mountain to tighten up behind me. I pulled over to the paved shoulder on the Silverado Trail to give us all a chance to re-group. Then I pulled out just as a pickup truck was pulling even to the end of our line. So sue me.
Silverado Trail is 26 miles of touristy two-lane, 60-MPH highway going north through the beautiful Napa Valley. It’s pretty but full of tourists. So you have to relax and wait for the broken-yellow passing zones. I waited, mostly. But after a few passes I noticed everyone behind me wasn’t remembering the pre-ride directive to follow me. *******.
* * *
When we got to Calistoga, we continued north on 29, a major throughway packed with cars and trucks that takes you over the mountain to Middletown and points north. That section of highway 29 is the Roller Coaster: First you go uphill and then you go downhill. And all along the way it twists and turns like the Matterhorn at Disneyland. On top of that it’s one lane in each direction except for a passing lane every mile or so. So when you get to a passing lane you just freakin’ nail that throttle to get ahead of the vehicles that pulled into the slower-traffic lane to the right, but you are flying like Nicki Hayden down the grandstand straightaway and better be damned good on the brakes because that is a very tight right- or left-hand corner you are accelerating into.
Recalling BikeEffect’s grabbing the lead earlier because that was his patch and he wanted to be able to open it up, I signaled for him to go ahead of me as we turned right from the Silverado Trail onto 29. Soon I was marveling at his prowess and audacity as he blasted past the cars in the passing lane then decelerated and flicked the bike into the next turn. I followed, forgetting my loved ones, applying lessons learned at the Reg Pridmore track school and second reading of Twist of the Wrist II.
On one right-hander when I was leaned over to the point where my right peg was bouncing and scraping against the rough pavement and forcing my boot to bounce off it, suddenly around the other way comes a cement mixer the size of Texas! “Oh man I’m gonna die!” So I just looked through the turn and rolled on more throttle, and dived into the next turn and the next and the next, all the way up one side and down the other of that crazy roller-coaster mountain because all that mattered in that moment was that road and that bike and the sensation that I had mastered the two.
* * *
Because of the siren allure of this Matterhorn that could cause a man to abandon his family for the sake of a fleeting moment of pleasure, I was concerned that surely one of our egos must have “written a check his skills couldn’t cash.” So I was pleased to count eight bikes when we pulled into the parking lot at our scheduled stop in Middletown for a rest and some nourishment before the final leg of our ride.
From Middletown we headed southeast toward Lake Berryessa. I wasn’t familiar with the roads, so I had put some tankbag tearsheet directions together. Didn’t matter. I missed a couple of turns and dragged the group in the wrong direction. But that was all right because you couldn’t find a bad motorcycle road out there.
But when BikeEffects figured I was flying without a compass, he took charge (this was still his patch) and led us out of the wilderness. We stopped at the spot where he meets fellow riders for breakfast on Sunday mornings. By now it was after 4PM. We chatted for a bit among ourselves and with some of the sport bike riders we met there.
One by one we each mounted up, said good-bye to those remaining, and headed off. By the time the sun neared the horizon, eight bikes--eight solitary silver, blue, or burgundy jewels--moved toward different points of the compass on their way home, each rider feeling the same deep glow of the satisfaction gained from the camaraderie of a shared joy.
Mr. and Ms. RicInSac:
L to R: Ms. Bluestreak, Hycle, Bluestreak, Painman, MidLifeFJR, Dr.Rich:
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