FJowners.com

I think it may be more difficult to write about this adventure than it was to actually do it.

I had posted as a new member in March, after purchasing a neglected 84 fj1100 midway north in Vermont, from a fellow named Sprocket who related that he had purchased it from a guy who was entering prison, and had to sell off his posessions. Perhaps this should have warned me off, but on advise from my friend and master mechanic Anders, who thought it a perfect specimen for my purpose, I bought the filthy and sad thing for $700, after Sprocket demonstrated that it ran perfectly on 3 cylinders, and declared he would help to load it in the pick up I had borrowed from my brother.

http://www.fjowners.com/index.php?topic=13570.0 (http://www.fjowners.com/index.php?topic=13570.0)

On finally getting it into my work space, and taking a good look at it, I called Anders, somewhat anxiously, to ask wtf he had gotten me into. Anders, ever the diplomat and economical of speech, elected quickly not to relate that I had made the final decision, and responded, initially somewhat cryptically, that anyone could ride a GOOD motorcycle cross country. I laugh as I think of that response, as without that challenge I would have never gotten as far as I did.

My friend Peter had decided that in order to see the US by bike, he would ride for 1 week to 10 days each year, leaving his 1975 Honda 750 at his installment destination. He started in 2014, going from Boston to St. Louis, where he left the bike with his friend Vlad. His plan was to follow what was left of route 66 to the Santa Monica pier, where the mother of all highways ends. A romantic idea that captivated both Vlad and myself. Peter graciously accepted our company, prompting my search for a suitable mount.

I begin assessing what needs doing on my new purchase. The non functioning cylinder is easy to identify, as the header pipe on #3 is cold after running. #2 is hot, so spark is probably not an issue, got to be carbs. Fork oil all over the front end and brakes, no cover on the instruments, hacked wiring harness, plastic cracks from previous dumps, bent and rusted parts everywhere I looked. Ugh! Ok, I start disassembly to get at the carbs. I note K&N pod air cleaners, and on disassembling the filthy carbs find adjustable aluminum needles. I know someone had been in here before me, as they'd buggered the heads of a number of Phillips fasteners.

Almost immediately on searching for parts on the web, I find the RPM site, and have the good fortune to speak with Robert Raduechel. Robert consistently provides good ideas and moral support during my project. I initially order carb rebuilding parts, and find some suitable solution for my ultrasonic cleaner. As time goes on, I order all sorts of stuff from RPM. It always comes quickly.

I rebuilt the carbs, adjusted valves, front end, all brake calipers, pads, new brake lines, retaining the anti dive units, which would cause problems later on, new drive chain, placed a Delkevic headers and collector. New cover for instruments, new tach, wired in a relay for charging my gps and phone. Peter was seduced to fly to St. Louis to meet Vlad on Sept 24th, and we were to meet in Oklahoma City  on the 26th. By the beginning of September, I had an untested bike.

Keep it coming.

(popcorn)

Trying! Can't  modify previous spelling errors etc using Chrome.

As I start to ride, I notice that idle is not stable, and the plugs always seem lean. I am using stock air jets and mains, the needle is set a clip setting rich from middle, and I am alternating running #40 and 42.5 pilots, using the United dual pods. Air/fuel pilot screw settings don't make much diff. I have figured a vacuum leak, replaced carb insulators, and every other rubber part, and tested with 3 different ignitors. I should add here that Mike Rieck was also invaluable both with his help and generosity. He lent me a hand, as well as his time, and expertise, and as many spare parts as I could carry. Mike, a dear friend and mentor, even put up with a late evening appearance to grab a borrowed Dyna and wires at one point.  He also owns an fj from new, that actually causes me to salivate. I continue to have difficulty tuning. This goes on until the day before I leave. Anders has come down from NH after dreaming that cam timing must be off. By this point I have actually acquired and  consulted a Clymer manual, and we note fairly quickly on taking the valve cover off that there are adjustible cam sprockets. I hadn't noticed this when I did valve adjustments. Sure enough, the exhaust cam is retarded by 1 tooth. Earlier that week, Anders, who came to Boston from central NH to help me there times that week, and I fabber a remote control idle adjuster using 2 robotic pulley wheels with a toothed belt between them, and the threaded part of an F6 cable adjuster. The remote pulley is attached to an aluminum bracket which is zip tied to the frame. Anders calls it protyping. In any case, it was easy to set idle, which stayed fairly consistent from this point on. I had ridden the bike 400 miles. I changed the oil, and waited almost sleeplessly for my departure Saturday morning.

Saturday morning dawns wet and gray. I am supposed to meet my friend Jim iat his place in McLean VA. Jim writes that he needs to do a few things on Sunday, and Monday is a better start day. I decide to hold off until Sunday to depart. My wife Martha finds stuff for me to do. Sunday comes in looking like Saturday. Martha wants me to look at a house for sale that morning, I go begrudgingly. We get back at 2, it seems not quite as grey... I load my gear, and take off at 4. The fj seems ok, but I don't have any trust at this point. We make it down through Rhode Island and into Connecticut on I95 before it starts seriously raining. Almost simultaneously road construction also begins. One of the things that Anders had liked about the bike when I bought it was that the rubber was in good shape. The front Shinko had no mileage, and the Dunlop in the rear little. Modern cross hatched road prep presented little problem even for 30 year old tire dimensions, and my inability to see well at times due to the amount of water coming down. Came down the hill into the Bronx and Coop City, and the rain let up, with a big rainbow in my mirrors. Unfortunately, NYC road quality is not stellar, and I was mostly able to dodge potholes and road debris as it got dark. The 20wt fork oil I had used proved a little stiff for this terrain, but I didn't really mind, even as I hoped my new seals would be durable enough to last.

I go over the Whitestone Bridge,  and am soon fast approaching Newark airport.  It's dark enough so I can see some of the taxi way lights, then I luck out, as a landing jet is running parallel to me, but at twice the speed. I pass  the Edison, Woodrow Wilson, Clara Barton turnpike rest areas. I've been going past them my whole life, but never remember their order of appearance. It's Sunday night, I am floating on air to be on my way, and making good time too. It starts to get colder, and I pull into Walt Whitman for a cup of coffee, to warm up, and to add some clothes.

I am using a rather large tail bag by Motocentric, which I have had for a couple of years, and as well their motored 19 tank bag. Side bags are the larger ones that RKA make. I am carrying a 1/4" socket set and a full set of wrenches, multimeter, spare parts, and m/c goos and unguents. I have my leather jacket with zip liner, a 2 piece rain suit, 2 pair of pants, and an assortment of 5 long and short sleeve the shirts. I stop at the Whitman rest area put the rain jacket on under my unlined leather, drink the coffee, and keep on moving. I am noticing that gas mileage is in the mid 30s, but gas is relatively inexpensive now, so ...

Bike feels good and solid, I like the low seat height and the ergonomic feel good. I had the original seat pan recovered by Eddie Barrett in Middlefield Ct. About $250. , looks good and comfortable.

I had mounted my Easy Pass behind the windshield on the dash with some velcro feet, which is picked up easily by the fast pass sensors at most tolls, except in  freaking California, where everything related to driving in the LA area is a hassle. Delaware bridge goes by quickly, and the next thing I know, I am on the 495 beltway headed towards Mclean. I know this road well from first hitching down it to my uncle's place in Glen Echo, first around 1970. A guy that looked like Charles Bronson picked me up on one occasion in a big Mercedes, dropping me off on the Cabin John parkway. I get to McLean at around 11.30, exhausted, but exhilarated and happy to be with Jim and his wife Veronica, who have waited up for my arrival.

Monday morning I get to hang out with Jim'said kids before they take off for school. I've known these kids all their lives, and having no grandkids myself, love Valentina and Nico like they were my own.

Jim has to deal with some construction materials, and we don't get moving until almost 11. We'really headed to Waynesboro VA to take the Blue Ridge Parkway. I have ridden it twice, but Jim has never been before. I know this is going to be a treat for him, but first we have to stop to see the Cherokee.

Jim learned how to fly from his dad George, who became a decent bush pilot, and wrote a camping reference guide for flyers who wanted to sleep under the wing. In 1998, George was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and Jim decided to take his old, well worn 1964 Piper Cherokee out to the Idaho fishing camp above Sandpoint, where George had a fishing and tourist camp, so that George could make a last flight. I jumped at the invitation to join him. We pushed that plane to its limits snaking through narrow canyons and using up drafts to get over the Rockies. We saw storms where the hail and ice looked  like popcorn being popped above us. We narrowly missed a head on collision with a bi plane pilot that wasn't paying attention, and had a near collision with hawk that was racing us on short final. We met excellent people, and George got to fly that plane. It was my last great adventure. By the time we made it back, we were flying on 3 cylinders, and using a fair amount of oil. The nose strut kept collapsing, the battery was weak as well, and I had a cut under my chin where the prop had grazed me as I tried to remove the stuck starter pinion from the fly wheel, not realizing that the magneto was still switched on.

Since that time, Jim had restored Triple 7 Sierra Romeo, and it was an honor to stop to see her..

That'said Jim with his new 1400 California Custom Guzzi

It was already 1pm when we got to Charlottesville, and an hour later when we stopped at Weasie's Kitchen in Waynesboro for a quick lunch. Then onto the Blue Ridge!

For anybody who has never ridden on this 470 mile long road with no lights, and limited entrances and exits. It is a national treasure, and one of the top motorcycling roads in the country. The 45mph speed limit does not appear to be enforced, although it was told to me by John, a bike shop owner from along the NC portion of the parkway,  on a late 70s BMw r100 with 200k, that there is a federal fine of 100 bucks for speeding. I agree with John that that fine almost seems like an admission price for the privilege of riding such a fine road.

Excellent stuff, you've got a good writing voice, an easy reading, enjoyable style.
Keep them coming please.

Thank you!!

I think the reason that I come across amicably may be due to my reasons for extending my initial idea of riding with Peter and Vlad to LA. I had a lot of thinking to do. My dad, with whom I had also shared many adventurous times, had passed in April, and it had thrown me for a loop, even though he was 95, and I'd known it was coming for a long time. Additionally, my wife and I were not getting along well after 35 years together, and she had taken in her indigent sister, perhaps as a buffer. Making this trip helped me come to a certain peace, not because I solved any great problems, but because all those jiggles and bumps on an undulating road kind of shake out the angst and anger one carries around sometimes without ever being aware of it. Perhaps as well, my love for being on an adventurous course may only be eclipsed by my enjoyment in meeting and talking to people along the way. There are a lot of really wonderfully fun folks in our country, and they brought up my spirits. I thank them as well.

Jim and I stayed the first night at some immemorable hotel in Roanoke. My priorities when staying in a motel or hotel seem to be as follows, perhaps in this order:

There's a covered area for my bike. I like Motel 6 places because they almost always have an covered walk way. I no longer ask whether I can put my bike under it, as the answer is almost invariably no. However, on only a very few occasions have I been asked to move it. I generally also like to keep it in view, although I cannot think of a time when anyone messed with my bike or belongings in the states.

The bathroom is clean, the place doesn't stink of smoke, and the water is hot and plentiful, and the price is not crazy. I try to keep it under $60., but occasionally splurge if I am feeling wasted, or the joint the night before was particularly rough.

Our ride between Roanoke and Ashville on Tuesday was two old friends going for it. I had started riding slowly from Wanyesboro, as I showed Jim the parkway. He was on a new, relatively huge and heavy bike, and I didn'the know how comfortable he felt on it. The beauty of my surroundings, and it's ebullient effect on me, caused me to forget my caution, and I caught enough speed to make it fun for myself.  Unexpectedly, Jim also jumped at the chance to run a bit hot, and when we stopped after a bit, leaned over to tell me how much more fun our new pace was. OK, and no problem! I was surprised that the Guzzi, which Jim, who has been following the  Guzzi newsgroup, calls the Goose, handles so well. It has plenty of grunt, but unlike Harleys that look similar, it has respectable lean angles and impressive Brembo braking. When I asked Jim, he said he was not dragging anything in the corners, decidedly un Harley like!

Ready to get on the road on Wednesday morning, fairly bright and early! We are going to complete the  parkway, with highest elevations in front of us, before riding through the Smokes to stay with my ex sister in law Shirley, in Big Canoe GA this eve. Then onto the Barber motor sports museum, in Leeds GA, for an afternoon of envious pleasures, checking out the most impressive collection of motorcycles that I have ever seen.

I am psyched! Shirley is, aside from convoluted family connections, someone who simply completes my circuit. We have an incredibly good time together, and seem to feed off each other'so good humor and love of being together. The thought of showing Barber to Jim makes me grin. I had ridden down for the Vintage Festival  in 2013 with Anders, and was overwhelmed. If Sturgis is the exclusive destination for HD riders, Barber Vintage weekend is the comparative UN summit. Bikes of every country and manufacturer.

I go to start my bike, no rear brake. The pedal descends farther than my decrepit ankle will allow, without any effect. Hmm, seal? I took as many tools as I could fit, but did not take a vacuum bleeder, such as a Mighty Vac, because it was too large.
The MR service department becomes my hero. While I might be able to get along without a rear brake, not having one will definitely detract from riding the Blue Ridge. With decreasing radius turns that are sometimes more than 270 degrees, and impossible to anticipate unless one has memorized the parkway, it is always nice to know that trail braking is an option on turns entered a wee too hot.
MR says they will give me preference due to my on the road status. I remove all luggage and plastic that covers the rear brake system, and after a cup of coffee, off she goes with an affable wrench of almost similar vintage as myself.

I trust the feeling that with age comes experience, perhaps because there seem to be dwindling other positive attributes that are in tandem with increasing age. 15 minutes after bringing the bike in, it is back. "The banjo bolt to the master cylinder was loose", says my semi aged new friend. Tightened and cleaned it up, and it's all bled. After a small ceremony to contribute a small amount of funding for MR, Jim and I are on our way.

We pass the info center at Mt. Mitchell, and make a photo stop at the highest elevation of the parkway, at Richland Balsam elevation 6053 ft. along with a couple of two up trike riders. (Hey Jim, you got those photos? The photo shown here is one I took of Anders in mid Oct 2013 when icy roads and very limited visibility caused us to leave the parkway soon afterwards. Note the same tail bag being used on the r1200rs)

While at a gas station in Ashville following my servicing at MR, Jim and I are approached by a fellow who relates that among his many accomplishments, he is a trustee of the Wheel Through Time museum in Maggie Valley. This interests me as two years + ago, I heard that the owner had sold off a fair number of bikes. This news in combination with the fact that I have tried to visit the museum on 3 seperate occasions and found it closed each time made me surprised to learn that the museum was still extant. The fellow assured us that the museum was still going, and was in fact open that very Wednesday. It was shortly after this meeting that Jim suggested that we go to this museum rather than Barber, as he preferred to get back to Virginia before weeks end, and having enjoyed going south on the Blue Ridge, wanted to go North on it home, rather than slab from Alabama. With some uneasyness concerning whether snoring had anything to do with this sudden decision, I said fine, and away we went. Maggie Valley was about an hour's ride on the parkway. I had stayed there on a couple of occasions at the Rolling Brook Inn, almost directly next door, mostly due to Anders. The Rolling Brook was run, at the time I last stayed there, by and older and younger woman, whose names are unfortunatly lost to me. At the time we stayed there, and as I noted most recently, the Motel sign indicates a constant NO VACANCY. The requisite protocol for staying was to go across the little bridge and its underlying river seperating the motel from route 19, cutting the engine just after clearing the bridge. Rolling up to the motel office quietly, one waits as non offensively as possible until either lady appears. Anders, usually an impressive statesman for economy of speech, surprises me with his ease of patter, as he chats up the elder woman on one occasion, and the younger on the next. At just the right moment, when either woman is starting to warm up, he pops the question, " Any chance of a room for this evening?" "You can take the one on the end, if you want," was the response on both occasions. "40 bucks." While the room is vintage 60's, it is clean, and the hot water is hot. And best of all, it is right next to Wheels Through Time, which is never open.

Quote from: azure on October 10, 2015, 07:38:05 AM

"The banjo bolt to the master cylinder was loose", says my semi aged new friend. "Tightened and cleaned it up, and it's all bled." After a small ceremony to contribute a small amount of funding for MR, Jim and I are on our way.

I do carry away a certain lingering guilt as I leave, having been the person, usually referred to when blame is placed as the PO (previous owner), who actually replaced the old rubber brake line. At that time I thought I had simply not tightened the banjo bolt completely. Now I am not so sure...

 You are a crazy old bastard......and I wouldn't want you being any other way. :lol: :i_am_so_happy:

We ride to almost the end of the parkway, in Cherokee, where I part company to continue towards Shirley and Big Canoe on rt 441. It is a really pretty ride, with nice curves and hills, hmm sounds sort of comfortingly feminine, and I reach the entrance gate at Big Canoe just before dark.

Big Canoe appears as an exclusive town of 8000 acres for 3000 residents. When I announced my visiting purpose at the entrance gate, and wait next to my bike in a small parking place by the side of the entrance way for Shirley to escort me in, I was approached by an elder lady in a Mercedes, who somewhat angrily got out of her car to announce that she had almost hit me because she could not see me. I felt I was being a bit gracious in apologizing for her shortcomings, but did not see any point in arguing. I did some quick thinking about the shortcomings of living in an environment where many, if not most folks think they are entitled, but kept it to myself when Shirley arrived. Motorcycles are not allowed in Big Canoe, and as we had, 2 years before when I first visited, we put my bike in an electric gate enclosed storage area before proceeding to have dinner. It was a luxury to wash and dry my small collection of clothes, and sleep in a bed with really soft sheets and pillows.

Quote from: JMR on October 10, 2015, 11:12:25 AM
You are a crazy old bastard......and I wouldn't want you being any other way. :lol: :i_am_so_happy:

Ha, sez I, puffing out my chest in pride :yahoo:

I am enjoying reading your adventure  :good2:

Good times .

Thanks Mark, glad you get my perspecrive.

Shirley had to go to Indianapolis on Thursday morning, and I had to be in Oklahoma City on Saturday evening to meet Peter and Vlad. After retrieving my bike, I set out following my gps exclusively for the first time. I knew from previous, recent trips that I could no longer see clearly enough to rely on maps to guide me as I rode. Besides which, the map pocket on the Moto Centric 19 is too narrow to show enough of a map to navigate by anyway. After 30 minutes, the map would usually need to be refolded to show the next portion of one's route.

I initially fought with the Garmin Zumo 660lm, I had purchased online for the almost reasonable price of $370. What I did not expect is that all mounting hardware was included, and offered several options for doing so conveniently. I did expect to find a manual, which aside from a quick start guide, was not present. You tube has several good posts on features, but the online manual was disappointing, and although I now love and depend on the little devil, I do wonder if I understand how to access all available info.
Initially, I would try to make the Zumo work like Google maps, by simply trying to select a city destination. There is no simple destination possible when speaking Zumo,  one must select a street and street number, after making sure one has the correctly specified state. For a while I chose 100 Main Street. Every town used to have a Main Street, just as every kid was named Billy or Susie. The great thing about most gps units currently, is that one can find gas stations, motels, food, and other points of interest on the fly, quickly and easily. Spelling the name of a town one wanted to head for after selecting points of interest generally helped, and could be done while I rode, however using specific routes required strategically choosing addresses along those routes. Initially, I did this for the next day, while I ate dinner. After a while, it somehow became easier. I'd like to believe this was due to knowing what I was doing, but ...

I had 2 days and a morning to make the 900 miles from Big Canoe to OK City. I wanted Saturday afternoon for an oil and filter change, and general maintenance, hopefully at the hotel where I was to meet Vlad and Peter, before they arrived. Making time to revisit the Barber museum, which really takes the better part of a very enjoyable day, would have meant pushing. I wanted to take secondary roads to see a mysterious and unfamiliar part of the country, whose history both attracted and disturbed me, the South.

Georgia feels like soft slippers and Hoag Carmichael to me. Unlike Louisiana, where I have not ridden a motorcycle, but spent time sipping culturally, I don't feel the mysticism and ghosts of time past. Probably naivete, or due to a large population and apparently cash influx in the 90s, but as I ride west towards Rome, and then cross the state line at Gadsden Alabama, I feel I could fit here. I think about whether I am shopping for a new place to live, but am not seriously, just enjoying the possibility.

I am from, and of New England. The drenchingly humid summer heat, and the effin numbness of my shoveling gloved fingers is in my bones, come to port in Boston by my dad's folks from some disappeared farming village near Kiev following one of the pograms, a word just as terrible as ethnic cleansing, and my mom's which drifted into New England looking for work from eastern europe, by way of Montreal. I love and abide the adage that if one does not care for more than one of New England's seasons, then one should move. In some child like way that resists the patrician attitude, or entitled Boston Brahmanism, with its political affiliations that were dominant here when I was a kid, I also love the answer to which towns were named after former governor Endicott Peabody:
Endicott, one of the towns flooded by the damming of the Swift river, to create the Quabbin reservoir, Boston's drinking water, Peabody, Marblehead, and the unfortunately named Athol.

The sense of poverty and loss of pride that appears epidemic on entering Alabama appears like a weight on the small, drab homes along my route between Birmingham and Huntsville, towards Cullman, dead cars and discarded posessions frequently evident. I reflect on how unfortunate one has to be before not caring any more, but the upbeat and unanticipated perc in being here is how warm and polite everyone is.
Perhaps it's the rurality, perhaps just southern hospitality, but I am not used to having people ask me how I am, or saying good morning before I do. And it happens here most of the time. And people like to stop and chat. I had noticed this even when  Anders and I stayed 3 nights  at one of the rougher places  I have been to, a former Day's Inn, in Birmingham, on my previous visit to Barber.

 Excellent report. I am enjoying this thoroughly. Last winter myself and two friends rode around Louisiana and Alabama as well. The people are very friendly. We found the small local non chain restaurants were very good. The poverty is quite overwhelming at times. It seems the car manufacturers are keen to sell them new wheels but many can't afford a roof over their heads.
   

Thanks Johnnie!

I have been pretty fortunate in my life, but if I could have only one posession that I could be proud of, it might well be a bike or car.

That being said, I was surprised to find Cullman to be a pretty and gracious town, with an excellent coffee shop, that brought me back to the places where I played music as an itinerant musician back in the day.

Another thing I really liked about Alabama!

Passing though Russelville, Moulton, and Red Bay, and the impressively named Burnt out on rt 24, I entered Mississippi, and proceeded towards Oxford, repeating the one verse and chorus I knew of Tupelo Honey at the top of my lungs at the appropriate time. Sounded pretty good with ear plugs wedged firmly in place too! I passed a mom and daughter walking down a hot, dusty road, and waved. The mom smiled, and the little girl waved back, just the three of us in the middle of cotton fields that stretched forever. That moment and feeling of solidarity made a wordless mental image that felt really good.

I stopped for the eve In  Oxford, a place that I have wanted to see since reading Faulkner as a teenager.

Faulkner, a writer who imparted to me the lugubrious pace, and desperate sense of being part of an environment that supported and strangled one at the same time, filtered through a haze of honeysuckle and hydrangea, captivated me. I remember his sense of humor, particularly in regard to the Slopes family, a stereotype of inbreding, greed, and stubborn will. In one scene, I don't recall the book, perhaps the Hamlet, that features a subplot concerning the mentally challenged Ike Snopes, who falls in love with a sheep... physically. When his brother finds out, he starts an enterprise, charging towns people admission to watch Ike and the sheep. As a teenager, I was impressed by the fertility and perversity of the author's mind. He taught at Ol Miss in Oxford, lived in a place he fixed up in town, named Rowen Oak, writing in a shack on the property. Heck, if I was going to see the US, I had to see the place Faulkner used for this inspiration.

I couldn't have asked for a more enlightening place to stay than the Ol Miss motel.
Oxford , being a Mississippi showcase university town, charges considerably for the privilege of staying over night. I frankly chose the Ol Miss because it was the most reasonable alternative available.
It also had the requisite porch overhang so that I could keep my bike dew free, and under my window.
There were many signed photos of many celebrities I had not heard of, plastered all over the office. Initially I thought this a good sign, but I later came to realize that like guarding an unwashed hand after shaking with a movie star, no one appeared to have cleaned the sheets and bathroom after said celebs had stayed. Heck there were even celebrity cigarette burns on the bathroom sink. In situations such as these, where there appears no apparent alternative or recourse, my first instinct is to turn on the a/c full blast. The old machine under my grime smeared window shuddered to life after pushing the appropriate grubby button. After off loading and securing my bike, I decided to go for a walk, see the town, and let the room air out!

I have always loved the feeling of being in college towns, having lived for 10 years and innumerable semesters in Amherst MA. When people ask me where I went to school, I periodically reply Amherst, a half truth if there ever was one. The other half is that I went to the University of Massachusetts, which is IN Amherst. In any case, I flourish in an environment of unabashed optimism coupled with an unbridled passion both negative and positive, for things one has read about, but never experienced. I have frequently felt like the experienced older brother in college towns. In bygone years, this had sometimes had a positive effect concerning my interaction with the feminine student population. I realized on visiting Oxford, however,  that with the passage of time, several members of the student population looked like the grandchildren of friends,  and the young and pretty hostess of the restaurant I ate in, and chatted with, rushed to open the door for me as I departed, both creating a nauseous reaction curiously similar to food poisoning.

Oxford town square

You have quite the way with words!

Either you are a writer, or you have enjoyed a great many story-books.

Enjoying reading your adventure.  :good:

Thank you Alan!  I hope I can continue to remember my thoughts and experiences on this trip, and write about them in an interesting way.  I always wanted to be a writer, but it seemed too solitary, and I never worked at it. I love music, and even though I didn't feel as facile playing music as I did writing, I put my efforts into music as my primary pastime, along with motorcycles and, when i was younger, bicycling. It's been frustrating at times, I think in the way some golfers feel about their game, but I am very proud and fond of the friends I've made along the way. I think my ability to tell a story musically, and as well to express my feelings, continues to become easier  both for me to do, and for fellow players and listeners to grasp. I keep trying!

I woke relatively late on Friday morning, the day was already coming through the  solitary threadbare curtain, in my freezing cold room. I needed a cup of coffee, but more so felt the need to clean the road grime off the fj, before leaving town. I find it helps to save napkins and paper towels, keeping a stash in my tank bag for regular cleaning and chain lubing. The good thing about doing so is that it's possible to see problems, such as loosening bolts, and weeping fluids before they become a hassle. I carry some Honda polish Iike, a small jar of Mother's Mag polish, a decreaser that is safe for o-ringed chains, and a wax based chain lubricant that smells good to me. I have a tool roll with metric wrenches, a couple of adjustable wrenches, some small T handle allen wrenches for specific applications, needle nosed pliers, plastic ties, big and small, and a favorite flat and #2 Phillips screw driver. I have a plastic case that houses a set of 1/4 " drive sockets, a couple of 2" extensions, and as well as 3/8" breaker bar that is about 8" long, and just barely fits in the case. I have a tire repair kit, a couple of pencil pressure gauges, an  electric inflator ( thanks Anders), and a couple of small CO2 containers.  I have a multimeter, and after realizing that I didn'the have any, some shielded wire. I carry an spare quart of oil as well. My fj used about a half quart every 2000 miles, and I checked it cold every day, just before I cleaned and oiled my chain.

I like cleaning my bike, and spreading my stuff on the side of the parking lot begin, as other guests, perhaps also famous but unknown to me, depart. I had noticed a fellow about my age who appeared to be traveling with a woman, perhaps his wife. I remember thinking they looked as if they too had been too tired to change lodging once they had found their room. I said hello to the man as he walked by me, and he stopped to chat. Turned out, he had ridden a Valerie around the country several years before at age 69, but now at 74 no longer felt confident with the weight and bulk of his machine. " I dropped it a few times" he told me, quietly, a slightly embarrassing confidence. I nodded sympathetically, and we talked and talked about things we'do done and seen on our respective trips.
Sometimes, one meets a sympathetic soul serendipitously, and the conversation just keeps going. Sometimes the pace of conversation is fast and passionate. This can sometimes lead to differences of opinion. If the conversation is too slow, it usually ends prematurely. With my new friend from Jackson, there was an affable and comfortable lope, which we each contributed to. This went on for quite some time, until all the cars in the parking lot were gone, except for his. His wife came over, and we were introduced before she gently told us that they had to leave. I finished my cleaning, mounted my bags, and headed over to Faulkner's residence, Rowan Oak. I was a bit concerned about making time, and really only dismounted to take a quick look before heading towards the Mississippi delta, and Arkansas.

Quote from: azure on October 12, 2015, 03:30:36 PM
In any case, I flourish in an environment of unabashed optimism coupled with an unbridled passion both negative and positive, for things one has read about, but never experienced.

That, my friend, is a fine piece of writing.

Yes, what a treat!

Thanks Guys! I am sure I forgot some of the stuff I saw or thought about, but I wonder if what makes what I've written enjoyable to look at, is that my thoughts are not unique, but perhaps very similar to what you might have also thought in the same place and time? Makes you consider what it is about riding, and perhaps more specifically cycle touring that attracts us. I took a day to think about what the attraction is for me. First, it's a chance to be on my own, and perhaps to be more organized and focused than I normally am. Some would argue that managing 5 tee shirts, a couple of pairs of pants, underwear, and socks, is not really a challenge, but each one of those garments becomes a bit precious enroute. I wrote a note to a friend early on this ballade, as the French would call it, saying that I thought vanity might be defined by chucking 1 of 5 shirts because it did not look good.

I think as well that somehow it's a test, of rider and bike. Planning, endurance, coping, hopefully not surviving, and not the least enjoyment are all skills that need to be well honed to make it home successfully. Self evaluation is a sub conscious, but daily part of the routine, just like chain lubing and adjusting.

I agree it is a test of rider and bike with the added bonus of meeting some fantastic people along the way. Keep the installments coming!  Dave

Quote from: azure on October 14, 2015, 12:26:04 PM
Thank Planning, endurance, coping, hopefully not surviving,

Whoh, " hopefully not surviving"?  I think I meant that the adventure was hopefully not a test of survival.

Quote from: TexasDave on October 14, 2015, 12:34:11 PM
I agree it is a test of rider and bike with the added bonus of meeting some fantastic people along the way. Keep the installments coming!  Dave

The absolute feeling of joy that accompanies meeting and speaking with people on the way, is maybe the best part for me too, Dave. It seems easier to do when riding solo. Thanks!

I somehow passed through the Mississippi Delta, just north of Clarksdale without seeing much indication that the dilapidated juke joints that fermented what became known as the Blues ever existed. The Delta is primarily about farming, a lot of cotton, and what I learned was soy bean. I also saw some pretty dry looking corn. Must have been a parched summer, as away from the river everything looked baked and burnt. It reminded me of the dust bowl stories I had read as a kid.

One factor that contributed to my quick exit from Ol Mississip was the pace of travel. Speed limits on secondary roads, when 4 lane and divided, which happened alot, were 70 mph, and traffic was moving 10 mpg faster. I let the western part of the state disappear on me.

I had wanted to see the area where so many famous musicians grew up, but was apprehensive that I would not find any authentic remnant of the environment that had nurtured the music they made. In my mind, I saw a juke joint as a visually unimpressive place in daylight, that after dark became an inviting social meeting place for local townspeople looking to relax, and blow off a little steam. Local enough so that outsiders were, at very least, thoroughly, and perhaps suspiciously, inspected on entrance. Dark enough to foster intimacy, and a slight feeling of potential excitement and danger.

I was lucky enough to have frequented bars and road houses that were still open at the tail end of the Chitlin circuit in the early and middle 70s, so I was, for a time, comfortable and unselfconscious about watching and participating within.  Now, I was a little apprehensive about how I would present myself  should I be lucky enough to find an interesting spot.

In any case, in some ways I am glad to have not found Morgan Freeman's bar or a Hard Rock cafe, on the site of a former juke joint.

The first thing I thought about, on crossing the Mississippi River into Arkansas, was where is Delight?
Perhaps because there was not much to look at. Flat, brown fields that stretched forever, with few shade trees in sight. But Delight is the birthplace of Glen Campbell, one of the few people that I knew who's origins are in Arkansas, aside from Bill Clinton. I became much more appreciative of the state on my ride east, and was happy to note that Johnny Cash, Al Green, Levon Helm, Louis Jordan, and a host of other heros grew up here.

It was hot by 10 am. It took a while to attend to any  infrequent roadside stops, as I tried to find enough shade to make stopping comfortable enough to for myself, and as well the fj. Route 49 through Marvell and Clarendon, then onto route 70 through Carlisle and Hazen. Straight, featureless roads that prompt little recollection. Route 10, which actually had some turns, took me up past the  congestion of Little Rock to Fort Smith, where I tried without success to talk the desk clerk at the Hampton Inn down from $94.

Instead, I rode under the route 40 overpass, and got a room at the Motel 6.

For $44.00, I got a view of the highway, and a second floor room that over looked the parking lot. I chatted briefly with an old guy in white loafers walking a miniature poodle, a woman in her 40's smoking on the back stairs, with enough wear and tear on her face to seem 10 years older, some young helmetless  kid taking a younger helmetless  kid on the back of an Electraglide, tearassing around the parking lot.

It was Friday night, and I was excited to meet up with Peter and Vlad tomorrow. I was tired of solitary life on the road, and even thought briefly about chatting up the woman on the stairs.

I woke early, walked to a drive through Starbucks on the other side of route 40 for coffee just as dawn was breaking. Hurried back, and headed onto route 40. I had spoken to the parts manager at the Norman Yamaha dealer, who confirmed that he had an oil filter for my bike. I had wanted tof purchase a second filter from my nearest dealer to take with me before I left Boston. I had bought one from them previously, when I changed the oil in the fj, possibly it's first change in a few years. When I returned to the dealer, they said they had no more filters for my bike. "We thought about reordering", the young, red headed parts girl told me,  "but when we checked, the only person who ever bought one was you!" Finding a filter for the fj is not impossible, but not easy either. I have thought about getting a spin on adapter, but kind of like the stock set up. Besides which, the stock filters are not expensive, except at the Norman OK dealer.
On arriving at the parts counter there, a bit before lunch time, I was greeted by the fellow I had spoken with, Ron, an affable soul, slightly younger than I, who showed me photos of his bike stash, and told me he had worked BMW parts for many years prior to going to Yamaha. We chatted for quite some time about shared experiences, as I had worked parts for Honda in the early 70's and BMW later on.  I bought 3 quarts of semi synth 20-50, and the filter. What irritated me was that he charged me $14.00 for the filter, even though the $7.99 price, similar to what I paid for previous and more recent copies, was right on the filter box. I smiled, paid the $52 and change, and promptly forgot his name was Ron, and chucked his card.

Norman is about 20 miles south of Oklahoma City. Peter had done all the hotel reservation research for our week together, as well as plan our route. At his request, I had booked his hotel selection in Oklahoma City, the Bricktown Hotel and Convention Center. After booking our room, I happened to glance at several reviews for the place, which were scathing. Although Bricktown is the historic, and tourist center of Oklahoma City, our same name hotel was nowhere near the district. Further, it appeared that renovations had been ongoing and stalled there for several months, lending a somewhat derelict looking atmosphere to the place. When I contacted Peter to ask if we should change hotels, he told me not to worry.
When I arrived, the place looked exactly as described,  a mess, but the staff was friendly, the room appeared comfortable, and best of all, it appeared that nobody would give a hoot if I used the deserted and covered side entrance area to change my oil! After depositing my baggage in our room, and knowing that Peter and Vlad would not be arriving until evening, I took a couple of bungee cords and headed to Walmart.

Walmart, or Wally World, as Anders and many others call it, was a discovery for me. There was not one convenient to me, on the west side of Boston, all I can say is I was missing out!

I went there in search of a container for my used oil, which I located and purchased for $7.00.
Returning to the side entrance, I changed oil and filter, cleaned the bike thoroughly, and generally felt a certain self satisfaction that one feels on knowing that you've done right by your bike. To me, it's not dissimilar to how I feel after a good burger.
Went to start the bike to see how much extra oil I would add after it filled the filter, and the starter barely turned. Ugh! Google motorcycle batteries, and found Battery Plus, who's existence was also unknown to me. I estimated my oil addition, and bump started the fj. It was just after 6, but the store was open later, and not too far. The female who answered the phone said that they had my battery.
I arrived, purchased the battery from the woman I had spoken to, who seemed completely disinterested by my interest in her store, and sold me the stronger rated of two battery options. When I installed it, there was no charge. By that point, the sales person had undertaken the removal of an old battery from a Buick suv, but was having difficulty removing it. She related that this was the only battery she had, but that she would charge it for me. It would take an hour or so, but first she had to install the new Buick battery. She quickly accepted my offer to change the battery in the Buick in exchange for attending to my battery. The owner of the Buick was a very friendly, and appreciative woman, and removal and replacement of the battery went quickly and smoothly. Interestingly, just as I finished, the sales lady returned with another new battery for me, which she had just found. Ignoring what was probably much more complicated and over my head than serendipity, I installed the new battery, which worked perfectly, and rushed back to meet my friends, who were more than ready to check out the sights, and get something to eat. I parked my bike at the side entrance, noting that my used oil container, which in my haste had been left, was now gone. Perfect, hope the new owner uses it well!

Our hotel again proved to be a good choice, as they provided a van and driver to transport us to the Bricktown district. We had a fun being tourists! We were among the last folks out of our restaurant when our driver arrived to take us back to the hotel. He was a wonderful racconteur, and showed us all over the City. He worked at a hospital during the day, and drove at night. When I asked him when he slept, he said he had been doing both jobs since his wife had been laid off several years before, and had got used to cat napping when he could.

Great adventure ... Keep an eye on the new battery as the fj likes to overcharge and boil the fluid on long trips. Many of us have installed regulators to prevent this and there are several mods listed in the files section.

Thanks Mark! It's a sealed AGM battery, but I will check for the posts related to installing the regulator.

Sealed AGM batteries do not like charging voltages above 14.4 volts. Your (unmodified) charging system will put out over 15 volts. At the higher voltages the traditional lead acid batteries would just bubble away the electrolyte, not so with the sealed AGM's.

Ok, we now return you to the regularly scheduled program.... Please continue.

[quote author=azure link=topic=14660.msg148324#msg148324

For $44.00, I got a view of the highway, and a second floor room that over looked the parking lot.

Took this photo at dawn
[/quote]

Sleeping three in a room is an art I have yet to master. While I received no criticism concerning any self produced bodily nocturnal sounds, Peter was awoken by my tablet keyboard clicking, as I sometimes wake at 3 or 4 am , and am addicted to sudoku, and reflective email writing in the dead of night. The tablet had been given to me just before I started by my wife, who was tired of watching me trying to read the morning paper on my phone, after my previous tablet was stolen in June from our locked car. I am fairly deaf, and was unaware that my tablet was producing simulated keyboard noises, but in the spirit of maintaining good relations with my friends and riding companions, I hastily found and removed the sound.

I use a Robert Mclosky drawing, from my favorite books from childhood, the Homer Price stories, in particular, The Case of the Sensational Scent, to illustrate a similar sleeping arrangement.

My association with Peter and Vlad had its origin 7 or 8 years ago, as part of a group of local riders who had met and become friendly, as an offshoot of the Honda sohc webgroup. Thanks to Scott, a programmer and founding member, we had our own newsgroup, nehondaguys.info, which we used to organize group meetings and rides. Thus I met Peter, first when we rode together as a group, and then definitively when he hosted a group dinner. I think it became clear to me that Peter, his wife Silva, and son Eric were people I had to be friends with, when Silva confided her simple method for getting overweight baggage onto international flights. I knew then that these were my kind of folks! From socializing over the ensuing years, I had heard of Vlad, but had not met him before doing so in Oklahoma City. A warm, funny, and smart guy, I felt like Vlad had been a friend for years after only a few minutes.

Sunday morning barely dawned on Oklahoma City. I awoke before the day's wet and gloomy presentation,  consulted Radar Now, trying to find a dry window of opportunity to the west, and snuck out across the strest to the local diner for a cup of Joe. I knew luck was with me when I saw the remnant of last night's good time by the door. I thought ruby slippers were a Kansas thing?

We tried to wait out the rain, which became progressively heavier, and waited until 11am, when there was a dry spell to the west. I thought Peter would follow a westerly direction, but he was looking for route 66, and went north. We got soaked, and slick roads coupled with heavy traffic had me not so silently cursing as we tried to find our way. Not the best way to start traveling together, but we persevered!After Bethany and Clinton, 66 disappeared, as it frequently did, putting us on 40 west.Route 66 began again for a short stretch just before the Texas border, passing throughost Texola as a old, disused, and divided 4 lane highway, for about a mile or two. The 2 best things about Texola that we found were Masel Zimmerman's Tumbleweeds Restaurant and General s
Store, featuring her portraiture and still lifes, and a crazy kid on an atv, who tried indefatigable to impress and entertain us with burn outs and wheelies, thanks Texola!

Before stopping at the somewhat bare bones Route 66 motel in Amarillo, we checked out a landmark in Maclean.

Oops, I just conferred with Peter, and realized that I have erred. No wonder I could not remember the Route 66 Inn in Amarillo. We did not stay there.  I do remember that we made Tucumcari that evening, after stopping at several interesting places along the way. The Midpoint cafe, which was closed but had chairs outside for weary travellers worked well for us, as did stopping at the Cadillac Ranch. Cruising in on route 40, we stayed at the Blue Swallow, which was fun, comfortable, and highly recommendable. As we arrived Sunday evening, the sky turned clear  and a bit cool. Pulling into the parking lot behind us was 51 Pontiac Chieftan. The driver, introduced himself as Cameron Mueller, said his family owned the place, and asked me if I might move my bike so that he could park his car. I personable and friendly fellow, it is hard not to like Kevin, or any of the Muellers. Rooms were decorated with furniture and furnishings from the golden years of route 66. Peter and Vlad shared a room, and while I had an adjoining room, we shared a bathrooms between us. When we said that we were hungry, and asked for a recommendation for dinner, the Muellers called a friend who owned a restaurant in  town, the Pow Wow restaurant and lounge. Jerry drove over and picked us up, brought us over to his place, which was decorated with amazing lifelike paintings of patrons, and after a satisfying meal drove us back to our lodging. Overall Tucumcari felt like a place I would return to, and when I do, I will stay again at the Blue Swallow.

If I post  photos in original format, some are upside down. I don't understand why!

The Midpoint Cafe and sign to mark the Midpoint of route 66, Adrian Tx

Tuesday morning, heading for Taos, and I first start to see the red clay mesa and mountains in the distance. Straight at them, the road, which was straight and flat starts to ascend. There is an altimeter function on the Zumo, which I like to watch. We had risen from 1200 to 4000 feet as we moved west the day before, and now we were moving up once again. I am most comfortable in higher elevations, and least happy in an aqueous environment. Growing up next to the ocean, I never liked the feeling of wet sand, and being sunburnt. I am embarrassed, but do not know much about sailing or swimming. I do love being on top of the world, with a view on high. In New England and the Pyrenees, where I have spent some time, I love mountain flowers grasses, animal trails and the animals that make them. I even like the smell, blown past sometimes too quickly to smell the pine and moss, and sometimes sheep that inform it.

The view as we ride west opens like the curtains used to before the movie would start. The thrill of anticipation as the hills grew tugged upwards on the corners of my lips, the day was warming, and I was home. Home is where one is, or at least should be, most comfortable. On a bike, with friends, on a road with no traffic, the anticipation of a part of the world that appears like time has stood still, I can't think of a better home to be in! The fj seemed really happy too. I had had to work hard to find a way to think of the bike as a traveling companion, but really, much of the time it was just the two of us, and I found I wanted someone to talk to. Peter and Vlad had purchased Scala units in anticipation of this trip, but perhaps because the units do not allow 3 way conversation, had not suggested that I do the same. While they chatted in Bulgarian, I shared my thoughts with the fj. I wasn't  sure at first, whether the bike was feminine or masculine, but knew in French, the only other language I have any familiarity with, that cars and motorcycles are feminine. My natural tendency was to consider the fj as a guy, but I corrected myself until I was used to thinking of her as a female companion. In any case, it was as if she wanted to go, really almost needed to, having been neglected and left standing someplace for ages, like the Tin Man, she was rearly happy marching on, pretty much at whatever pace was warranted.  I have other bikes, some like the Hayabusa, and BMW k1200, have a tendency to go faster than my sense of what is proper. Several, like the sv650 or my old r100rs indicate more moderate rates of travel, when I think I am burning up the road.

The fj, while reading a bit higher, by 5-10 mph than my gps, which I preferred, was always right where I thought I was. Sunny, as I ended up calling her, is dependable and loyal, and I think beautiful too. If I fussed over her more than Peter and Vlad did, I apologize for any time lost. I was in love.

We forgot to stop for gas in Tucumcari. Riding rt 104, somewhere east of Trementina, we realized that we had to make Las Vegas NM to get gas, and that perhaps we did not have sufficient fuel to do so. I figured I had about 180 miles from 5 gal to empty. I realized that if I crammed in the last gallon, which invariably meant having fuel ricochet  all over the top of the tank, I could get 215, but on the evening before, 50 miles  east of Tucumcari, and the Blue Swallow, we has gassed up.  I had added fuel so that there was 5 gallons in the tank. We stopped in what I think was Garita, to confer about how to proceed, and immediately noticed we were stopped next to the first rat rod I had seen close up. Using what looked suspiciously like the front  wheels off an International Harvester milk truck, I loved the thing. Better yet, I saw another on the road as we headed for lunch and Las Vegas.

While I had 180 miles roughly, Peter's '75 Honda 750 had less. He had already run out enroute from St. Louis to Springfield at 178 miles.

Although his Concours had a 7.5 gal tank, Vlad was the only one of us who had the presence of mind to bring along a reserve container of gas. Half a gallon doesn't seem like much, but the extra 20 miles, (ok I know that's optimistic on the fj), in reserve could make a huge difference.

We decided that Peter would stay close to Vlad and his half gal, while I would ride in front. Thank goodness for a long downhill into Las Vegas! Peter ran out at 161, used Vlad's extra gas, and ran out again, but was able to glide into the station where I waited at the town's east entrance, having made it on fumes. I put 4.9+ gallons in at that station.

Our luck was holding, as across the street from the station was a restaurant,  the original Johnny's kitchen. As we parked to go in, I became aware of a peculiar behavior that would be repeated several times a day until we reached Los Angeles. An older guy, with some fair mileage on him, limped out of Johnny's on a cane, started to pass us going the other way and halted next to the Honda. The words that came out of his mouth were variations on a central theme that must have started earlier without my niticing, but always started something like this, and always evolved into a personal story of motorcycling lore; " I used to .. have one of these, know somebody who had one of these, crashed on of these, got laid on one of these", the variations were infinite. No one ever noticed my bike or Vlad's. The only consolation we had was the slowly evolving realization that no women ever stopped to comment, it was only guys who did so. Peter's 1975 Honda 750 was a guy magnate! That's our waitress busting me a smile as we were leaving, very positive and friendly soul.

We took rt 518 north on full stomaches, climbing towards Taos. Though it had been fairly warm in Las Vegas, at 6500 feet, each 1000 feet of elevation drops the temp 3.5 degrees f. It was starting to feel cool as we reached just about 10,000 feet before dropping down to 7000 and entering Taos. I found the town a bit of a disappointment. Firstly, traffic was a pain in the ass, and remained so for a couple of miles once out of the town center. Secondly, there was little compelling architecture, at least along our route, and what I did see looked precious and self conscious, similar to the art work I saw displayed for sale. There sure were a lot of Georgia O'Keefe influenced still lifes, which reminded me of the multitude of derivative seascapes for sale on Cape Cod. One can only take so much interpretation of the environment the is readily available right in front of your face. To me, came the phrases, don't mess with mother nature, and imitation sure may be the most sincere form of flattery, but it sure is mostly a far cry from the real thing,

El Prado and Tres Piedras are two very interesting stops once out of Taos traffic.
Both are located within 4 miles of each other on highway 64, nw of of Taos. The Rio Grande rivery has cut a deep gorge in El Prado, that is impressive to see and worth stopping for. Just beyond is the Earthship Biosphere, a wonderful collection of fantastically and purposfully styled houses that use and collect water and solar energy in creative and efficient ways, and incorporate recycled materials. An addicted coffee drinker, the cafe sign on site also captured my attention.

Our ride to Santa Fe from the Biosphere on route 68 requires recrossing downtown Taos, again testing my  good humor in the face of heavy traffic. Along our route, we are confronted by a rambling collection of Americana, mostly represented by old gas pumps. These, to me, artistic displays of either collecting or hoarding are fairly common in the southwest, however periodically the scope of the collection causes one to pause, as was the case here, and as well earlier in the day, when we came across a bunch of deteriorating 60s and 70s motorcycles.

We rested for the night at the Silver Saddle motel in Santa Fe. One ritual that Peter and Vlad had initiated before I met them, and to which I heartily subscribed, was the sharing of a nightcap, usually burbon, while discussing the day's journey.

Breakfast was included the following morning, and Vlad and I chatted with the owner about the various green aspects of the Biosphere, serving politically in Santa Fe, and dogs.

Tuesday dawned gray, with light intermittant rain. We decided that we wanted to see a bit of the town before departing, stopping first at the train station, and then in old Santa Fe.
Once again, Peter was accosted at the train station by another sohc 750 afficinado. This fellow still had his own old 4, and regaled us with a personal story of his affection for the old beast. I believe this was the beginning of Peter's loss of enthusiasm for the ritual pilgrimage, and I think he walked away leaving me to nod appreciatively when a response was needed to the story. Personally, I loved these ad hoc meetings, and the stories that were shared. The first photo shows me with the admirer, who I recall thanks to Peter was actually the parking attendant at the rail station.

I really enjoyed old Santa Fe, both because it was pretty, in understated way I enjoy most, and because aside from the many shops, which exhibited some beautiful and expensive gifts, there was a public area just off the central grassy square, where crafts people could vend their own wares. I particularly was taken by the Pueblo style beaded necklaces that one woman was vending. She had a great eye, I thought, for choosing colors and shapes, and her craft was fine and attractive. Her pricing was steep enough to cause me second thoughts, and I thanked her without purchasing. I kept thinking about her product though, especially a creamy off white, light brown, and green piece which kept coming back to me.

Our first timeout for emergency roadside repair occurred as we tried to depart from Santa Fe. While gassing up, Vlad noticed he had acquired a nail in his rear tire. I had the necessary repair materials and tools, but Peter ended up being the more experienced hand, making the definitive plug placement. Turned out to be solid too, as Vlad rode a couple of thousand miles more on that Avon Storm, before it once again rested in his St. Louis garage.

Riding down route 14 towards Albuquerque, the sky began to get darker and darker. Riding into Albuquerque towards the historic quarter, where we hoped to get lunch, was my introdution to south western urban planning, a misnomer if there ever was one. Traffic lights, timed without apparent regard to traffic flow begin 10 miles from the center of town, and continue every thousand feet or so. Speed limits of 55 or 65 mph are not unusual, and it is only after a few or 20 lights, that one realizes the value of not trying to go as fast as one can to get to the next light, because there always is a next one.

In any case, the second postponement of the day's activities, well planned by Peter as usual, occurred at one such light almost to our destination. Running too close to the speed limit, I had to abruptly stop for a light. There were a series of sharp bumps that I felt as I braked, and the front end descended and progressively bottomed out, then never rebounded. I made the light, but the front of my bike was significantly lower than it had been, with the lower triple tree kissing the lower fork leg. Further, I noted, the left directional stalk had parted company from its aluminium frame mounted fairing support.

I yanked up the front end, which stayed up for a bit, got lost trying to find the restaurant we had decided on, which was on an obscure side street in an area where many streets were one way.  Ugh, stuck in a big town where I knew no one. I checked to make sure the upper fork legs had not moved in the trees, what else could have caused the forks to collapse?  I had taken the forks apart completely during the process of mqking the bike road worthy, replacing seals and fluid, cleaning and polishing damper rods, and legs. I had replaced brake and clutch lines with Spangler ss, retaining the anti dive unit function, which I thought was fun and quaint. A period innovation that had been shown to have limited or no particular positive function.  The springs were ok, a bit tired perhaps, but not a primary consideration at the time. Had one broken? I had never seen or heard of that possibility. While I pondered this, over a beer, sitting outside at our restaurant with Vlad and Peter trying trying to make light of the problem, I could not have considered that anything more could complicate the journey. I was concerned about slowing down Peter and Vlad. Peter's schedule was the tightest, as he was scheduled to fly out of LAX on Sunday morning, and had worked out a fairly immovable timetable of activities in the interim. Vlad too was feeling the pinch of time, and wanted to be back in St. Louis the following Tuesday eve because of his work. My initial sense was we would have to part company. I would stay in Albuquerque and figure out how to get going again.
That's when it started raining. Seriously raining. Rain that hurt it came down so hard, and soaked one in an instant. Rain so hard that the idea of rescuing any gear from the bikes was immediately futile. We were getting soaked under our courtyard umbrella, and moved Into the restaurant to eat. I couldn't think about eating, and have no memory of having done so. I called Anders and Mike to confer, although neither initially answered, Anders called me back. He had never experienced a similar problem either, but in the course of conversation, the subject of the anti dive units was broached as a potential cause. I told Anders I would let him know how it worked out, and called a couple of local shops, ultimately deciding to go to the local Yam dealer, Bobby J's. Vlad and Peter, true friends that they are, refused to leave me in my time of need. I am humbled by their steadfast support. I could have dealt on my own, but it was much more fun and reassuring to have them with me. I rode very slowly and carefully over to the shop, a couple of miles from our restaurant. The monsoon had abated, but the force of the storm had caused all manner of rocks, portions of trees, and an amazing amount of earth and sand to accumulate on city roads. Dirt biking in Albequerque, while the idea was enticing in the right setting, I never figured I'd have this opportunity in the center of the city, on an fj.

Rob, the service manager at Bobby J's, got me right in. The first wrench I talked to, a young guy of 33, who's name I have misplaced, was nice enough to swap out the banjo bolts to the anti dive units with plain bolts, effectively blocking off the units. When I asked about bleeding the front brakes after doing so, he said it wasn't necessary, which seemed strange to me, but I let it go, probably to minimize cost. I had met the other mechanic on duty, Jack, and had admired the TIG welder he had at his station, and his comfort in using it, before asking if my directional stalk could be rewelded.

Sure he said, but because my bike was over 10 years old, the shop did not want to disassemble the bike to access the broken fairing support. I suggested that I could do so, off the shop grounds, returning the bike and frame for attention. My proposal accepted, we searched the industrial neighborhood adjacent to the shop for a suitable place to work. Eventually, we decided on the covered entranceway of an apparently closed gym. It had started to pour again. Removing the fairing on the early fj is quick work, and aptly aided by Vlad, I rode the bike back to the shop, leaving my friends at the gym, and removing the fairing support in the dealer's parking lot. Jack took the bike in, and fussed over the job for the better part of an hour. I chatted with Rob, who told me he thought the melanoma he had had removed almost 20 years ago had returnes, but that he preferred to go dirt biking rather than deal with it, especially as he figured the consequence of its return was fatal. I hope I convinced him that the reason that he had survived for so long after the initial incidence was due to misidentification of the tumor's malignancy, and there was hope and good rational for having the new raised mole that had reappeared looked at. As he never returned my email however, I have the sense that he is out someplace dirt biking.

Jack turned out a beautifully welded, cleaned up, and painted job. The charge was nominal for the work, and I hope the extra money I gave to Rob for a shop beer party was used purposefully.

I returned to the gym to find that the gym had opened, and Peter had disappeared. Reassembling my bike in the rain, Vlad related the hat trick mechanical repair incident of the day  had occured when in trying to tighten his weeping clutch master cylinder cover, he had slipped and perforated his oil filter. Peter had gone in search of a new cannister style filter at an auto parts place. Apparently the gym manager was sympathetic to our situation, and offered no objection to our remaining on the property to complete our repairs. Peter returned successfully, Vlad went to install his filter, and the next fellow came over to admire Peter's bike and relate his story about having to avert a fight to the death with a motorcycle gang near Bakersfield while returning from a visit to his daughter in LA. Nothing like getting told a good story while fixing one's bike! Mission accomplished, and hopeful that my front suspension problem was at least temporarily solved, we pushed on towards Gallup, and the El Rancho hotel.

Post script:
I have found that if I load originally sized JPG photos individually, modifying my post each time to do so, they don't come in upside down!

Stopping for gas and an al fresco fast food dinner, somewhere near Continental Divide NM, where we were once again accosted by a restaurant employee who had a friend who's friend also had a Honda 750, or was it a 550, we made it to Gallup and the El Rancho in the early evening. The manager, small, bespectacled, of interesting heritage, a bit condensending, and rightfully proud of the hotel, allowed us to park in a covered portion of the parking area. Our adjoining rooms, on the ground floor adjacent to the service area were not the finest offered, but were large and gracious. The foyer and salon of the place were amazing to regard. As was my normal routine, I passed out soundly after our nightly burbon digestif  and chat.

Peter had planned Thursday, as a day that allowed for considerable lattitude. While he had several alternatives for our itinerary, we had only about 150 miles to go, as the crow flies, from the El Rancho to our evening's resting place in Winslow Az.

It was initially difficult for me to follow Peter's route and planning without trying to formulate my own. Being a passive participant is a bit foreign to me, but I reminded myself that I had asked to join Peter's trip, and he had spent considerable time in thinking and planning to make this a memorable time. Once I allowed myself to do so, I very much enjoyed not having to make choices and decisions. When I set off on my own, after parting company with Peter and Vlad, I found it difficult to start to make my own choices again.

Our first destination of the day was towards route 264 and Window Rock.
While the geological formation is interesting and significant, the memorial there is even more so to me.
The memorial is generally for Native Americans who fought and fell on foreign soil, and specifically for the  code talkers who used the Navajo language as the basis for creating a communication code that was never broken by our enemies during ww2. My sense of unrest regarding Native American plight was piqued on this visit by two elderly ladies who sat alone on a shady corner of the parking lot, making jewlery. I stopped to chat with them and check out their work, and was impressed with their kindness and friendliness.  The sense of god informed the conversation, but it was their positivity, and laissez faire attitude about whether I was attracted to their work that I particularly found endearing . I have an Armenian friend, an elderly lady that I see as a patient, who will never forgive the Turks for the genocide of 1915-1917. We talked about it yesterday. I grew up with a dad who was haunted  for eternity by liberating an Austrian concentration camp during ww2. The sense of ease that I felt when chatting with native Americans, which I did quite frequently on this trip, and when I was in the Pacific Northwest 40 odd years ago, is hard for me to fathom. I don't  know that it is forgivness, but one has the sense that there is not an impediment to being close. Heck, my family was living in  hovels in eastern Europe when  the American Indians were subjected to their own genocide, but I still feel crappy about it. More so, however, I relish the opportunity to share and learn. How cool is that!  

Our next stop was the Petrified Forest and Painted Desert. Both are part of the same national park, a quarter of a million acres in size. It is impossible to photograph the scope or immensity of the vistas or sense of space that we saw. The enormity of this park, and as well many spots in the central and south west  has caused me to think of how one might have survived in the days before roads and rest stops.

We rode about an hour from the Park to stay with Floranel Earl, at the former Marble Motel that she and her late husband Lee had purchased in 1974, and renamed Earl's Motor Court. On the way, passing the Wigwam motel, which was full up! At Earl's,  there was a male nurse at the state prison, who stayed in the next room on one side, commuting down from Nevada, and staying a couple of days weekly, and a woman on the other side travelling from Socal to visit an old friend in Santa Fe, where she had lived for many years. People were friendly, and we chatted amiably as we cleaned up the bikes a bit on a nice evening. We walked about 2 blocks, and ate dinner in a little, satisfying cafe, the Brown Mug, before strolling back to Earl's for a nice drink, and soft bed.

Given that Vlad and Peter really loved to stop at all manner of touristic enticments, Thursday's 450 mile itinerary from Winslow to Barstow seemed somewhat a tall order. We hadn't gone more that 25 miles before we stopped to view the old ghost town that had once been variously called Canyon Diablo and Two Guns, Arizona. At one time at booming frontier town that sprang up to service crews putting in rail lines, the town died out over the last century, existing last as a trading post and gas station. Nothing much there now except some ruins and alien graffitti.

Our next stop was Seligman Az, one of the few towns on rt 66 that seems to be attracting ample tourists. During the few minutes we were there, several buses full of of foreign sightseers distorted their passengers. Sure enough a french couple from Orange stopped so that the monster could admire Peter's bike. Peter quickly disappeared, as had become his wont, and I practiced my french for a while, before finding a quiet and shady seat away from the throngs of folks trying to find any shred of the experience of 20th century travel on the mother road.

Continuing on the well worn tourist route towards Kingman, and Mr. D'z where we stopped for a lemonade, we stopped for gas and photos at the Cruz N 66.

I am usually not drawn to tourist attractions, somehow feeling that they are too obvious, or that I am somehow too sophisticated to participate. Peter and Vlad are enthralled by the chance to be enveigled by American kitsch, perhaps as they have not become bored after a life time's subjection. I have to admit that their enthusiasm made it more fun and tolerable to experience as well.

The heat of the day had already caused us to shed most of our gear, but the ride from Kingman through Needles CA, and the Mohave desert was both scenic and somewhat of a victory for both riders and bikes. Especially air cooled bikes, as the temperature was 115f in Needles when we arrived.

For those who have never experienced this extreme, I offer these two anecdotes;

First, we rode with our shields down. It was stifling, and claustrophobic, but preferable to raising the shield, as the hot air physically burned our faces.

We stopped for gas in Needles, brutally hot, we were drinking water in a tiny area of shade when a short heavy set trucker sporting a mullet with pony tail came out of the station. Walking to his truck, he did a double take when he saw Peter's bike, walked back towards us, and went into some variation of the oft heard story about his own experiences. As he finished and started to walk towards his truck, I called to him to ask how he tolerated the heat. Stopped in his tracks, he turned towards us, with what might be called a violent look. His anger didn't seem to be at us, but more at the heat itself. "People say, oh, but it's dry heat", he spat out. " Let me tell you, an oven uses dry heat, cookies bake in this dry heat!" And with that he stomped into the cab of his Kenilworth, with its luxurious air conditioning, driving off in a huff!

As evening fell, the brutality of the day's  heat became more moderate, and more tangible was the desolate beauty, and immensity of the desert's expanse. I thought on more than a few occasions about how a guy on a horse might have survived traveling across such rough and barren terrain. Must have been pretty tough!

Did you travel with a camel back or other type of water storage? It is a dangerous mistake if you did not.

There is the inverse of the "wind chill effect" and that is the "blast furnace effect"
115* at a cruising speed of 70-80mph is equivalent to 130* Even at night when it cools down to 100* it's still equivalent to 105-107* at speed. It's alarming how fast you dehydrate.
You have to *continuously hydrate* in that environment.

You are now in my neck of the woods.

If you decided to get off the interstate (I-40) it sounds like you are going to come down from Needles via Hwy 62 thru 29 Palms and Yucca Valley. Even on I-40 across the Mojave, It's still a long hot pull from Needles to Barstow. I hope you did that at night or the early morning hours.

I'd love to read how your desert crossing experience went. You obviously survived.  

Pat, I sent him a PM, he returned home early this month. 

Thanks Mark, yea, I assumed Ben had returned to Boston. While his story shows that he is getting close to Santa Monica, it's always the return trip that's just as adventuresome.

We arrived at the Route 66 motel in Barstow as night was falling. Vlad and I took the double room, while Peter marveled at the round bed in his single.

My front brake feel had become quite soft over the 2 days following my repair in Albuquerque, and as well, my rear brake was almost non functional. Before dining that eve, we stopped at an auto parts store, and I purchased a Mighty Vac. Although I was unsure I had the space to carry it, I repacked to include it with my gear. Mexican food had become a staple dinner, and Peter, who did not particularly care for it initially,  had begun to appreciate it.
I enjoyed speaking with Mary Shandil, who with her husband has owned the hotel for many years. The motel, built in 1922 requires lots of attention, and Mary is thinking that if they can sell the place, they can move to LA and be near their children.

Quote from: Pat Conlon on October 22, 2015, 07:04:53 PM
Did you travel with a camel back or other type of water storage? It is a dangerous mistake if you did not.

There is the inverse of the "wind chill effect" and that is the "blast furnace effect"
115* at a cruising speed of 70-80mph is equivalent to 130* Even at night when it cools down to 100* it's still equivalent to 105-107* at speed. It's alarming how fast you dehydrate.
You have to *continuously hydrate* in that environment.

You are now in my neck of the woods.

If you decided to get off the interstate (I-40) it sounds like you are going to come down from Needles via Hwy 62 thru 29 Palms and Yucca Valley. Even on I-40 across the Mojave, It's still a long hot pull from Needles to Barstow. I hope you did that at night or the early morning hours.

I'd love to read how your desert crossing experience went. You obviously survived.  

I am pretty sure that we reached Needles in the late afternoon, and took 40 to Barstow, arriving around 7, but have a message into Peter and Vlad asking for confirmation. Vlad had a bladder in his tank bag, Peter had a flip front helmet, which allowed him access to drink while he rode, if he wished. I did not have a straw, so had to take my helmet off to drink. I did so whenever we stopped, but having a camel back or other ready water source is something I should have used. My tank bag is made for it, however I was reluctant to give up the necessary interior space for the bladder. My idiocy! What blew me away, was how well the fj did. I ran 20-50 semi synth, and tried to keep revs to 5k or below, but she ran like a champ, probably because we were at a fairly constant 70 or so. LA traffic made the fj, and me much more uncomfortable, even though the temp was only in the mid 90s.

I got a couple of tranquil shots of Barstow, when I woke early the next morning. Mary had said she'd make me a cup of coffee, but I didn't want to bother her so early, so I walked over to a dognut place and bought coffee.

Just east of Barstow, we found another iconoclastic display illustrating the beauty of americana. I could be wrong, but isn't that a Hodaka Super Rat tank?

Peter picked a nice route into San Bernadino, past a body of water that I believe was Big Bear Lake. It was just after Rancho Cucamonga, when riding on route 66 became my idea of hell. Hot, 90s weather, combined with heavy traffic, made even worse by a traffic light every 300 yards. I did it for 10 miles, then couldn't stand it any more. Peter, while really wanting to make it to Santa Monica on 66, agreed, as did Vlad. We headed for the 10, but as I entered 10, the other guys weren't behind me. Peter said he wasn't ready when I started, and they lost me. Peter and Vlad went back to 66 and patiently made it to the Santa Monica pier. I stayed on 10 until it bottleneck ed around Pomona, got off and back roared it down to Huntington Beach, where I had a new tire waiting for me at Next Motorcycle. I had called before and spoken to the parts manager Javier, who had quoted me a reasonable price on a Michelin Commander 2. I was kind of looking for a Metzler me888, but Javier's price was more reasonable. Javier Miranda turned out to be a sweetheart of a guy. Gravely injured when he rear ended a car going way too fast on Beach Blvd a couple of years before, he no longer rode, but thought about getting on again on a closed course. He helped me out, is a fine guy, who is above letting a tough break get the better of him, thanks Javier! While I was waiting for my new tire to be mounted, I received a text from Peter with the accompanying photo of he and Vlad in Santa Monica, oh well! Rather than meet them there, in the miserable tide of Friday rush hour traffic, I decided to head for the air b&b house we had rented in Silverado, south east of LA. Aside from having to ride on a toll road without a toll booth, and having to pay an exorbitant sum online to avoid a ticket, I made it to the Silverado canyon without much difficulty, and found our accomodations. If there is a silver lining to Los Angeles, sorry Pat and Mark, tough town to negotiate, it's Silverado.
Peter had become friends with a Silverado resident Paul, through the transfer of Honda 750 parts. They had met previously and hit it off. Paul had agreed to store Peter's bike for him, so that Peter could return next year on his next week off, to ride up the left coast. The house was perfect, and the a/c was cold! Not long after Peter and Vlad arrived, so did Paul.

I know I am a very lucky fellow, because I have made the acquaintance of several wonderful people on this trip. Perhaps I am simply lucky to know Peter, as Vlad and Paul were introduced to me by him. All I know, is that I am lucky, Paul B. is much younger than his years. This is perhaps in part due to living with his wife Jane, and their children and grandchildren, for many years in Silverado, an autonomous town of 800 folks that, for me, is the epitome of what I love about living in a small town. First, there's a cafe that serves great food, and acts as a central meeting place for friends and neighbors. Second, everybody knows everybody, and there is a real feeling of corps d'espirit, or a sense of shared life. This is a town that does things together. Neighbors help each other, and there is a feeling of belonging to something that is worthwhile. Paul takes us for dinner at the cafe, and it is like coming home for me. There are people that come over to say hi to Paul, and us, hellos, affable curses, and other endearments are yelled across the room as new folks come in, the waitress is fun and welcoming, and the beer is cold!

Saturday morning Vlad goes to visit friends in Pasadena, and after Peter and I have a great breakfast with Paul, and his family, Peter goes for a ride with Paul, and Paul's friend Tony, and I stay at the house and work on my bike. I have a nice time bleeding out the brakes, and clutch, changing engine oil, and generally making sure things are ship shape. Sunny does not seem to like California fuel, and is idling poorly. I raise the idle a bit, call my brother Jeremy, and his wife Jan, and we arrange to meet for dinner. I go out and buy some wine and gas up, as tomorrow Vlad will take off at first light for St. Louis, Peter will be driven to LAX by Paul for a noon flight, and I will be on my own again, headed up the coast towards San Francisco. By the end of the day, Peter, Paul and Tony have had a blast canyon riding, Vlad has had a good time with his Pasadena friends, and Jeremy, Jan, and Jane, Paul's wife have joined us all for a barbecue at our place. We sit out on the deck, eating and drinking, and having a great time. As soon as folks have left, and we've cleaned up, Vlad and I prepare our respective departures, figuring out routes, checking weather, programming gpses, making sure we take full advantage of the washer and dryer. We get to bed late and are up well before dawn. Vlad leaves first, barely waiting for first light. He will get back to St. Louis on Tuesday, an iron butt master. I am next, not long after, a bit sad, and feeling a bit uncomfortable on my own.

I wish I had a photo of our dinner together on Saturday eve, but am glad I have one from breakfast that morning with Peter, Jane, and Paul!

Sunday morning. Paul and Tony had reassured me that the traffic through the city will be light. I get onto the 5, heading toward 10 west, and route 1. I soon realize what a relative adjective "light" is. 6.30 in the morning, and the traffic is moving, with periodic places where there is enough room to change lanes. I guess one should be thankful for small things! I make it to the Pacific Palisades and Malibu, before I stop to savour the moment. I have been waiting a long time to start this part of my trip!

I moved to San Francisco to work in the band of a friend I had made while at the Berkley College of Music in Boston the previous year. I drove, with all my belongings in a VW square back with no heat, and my oldest friend, Dick Mover, initially towards Madison WI, where Dick and I had shared a house, and many friends, several summers before. We got as far as Buffalo before a snowstorm closed the interstate. We slept in a heated rest area building, digging for most of the next morning to find and uncover out car. Hastily changing our travel plans, we turned south, crossed the Ohio, just past Cincinnati, and headed for Austin. Eventually, I took a bus, with all my belongings, from Austin, through Phoenix and LA
to finally reach the band house on Mission, near Bernap Heights Park.

I took a day job, rehearsed at nights with the group, which got very little work. When I could, I would steal the band van, and drive up to Stinson Beach to look at the ocean. Sometimes I'd take the bus to the beach in the Sunset district, I thought the Pacific was exotic, there were seals everywhere!
The furthest south I ever got was on a group trip to Pomponio beach, west of Palo Alto. I loved the coast roads, although riding in the van as a passenger made me nauseous on occasion. I dreamed about going south on route 1, and what the coast would look like. I heard stories about the beauty of Big Sur, Carmel, Monterey, and Malibu over the ensuing years, but never had the chance to visit. Now, I had the chance to check out an area I had thought about for a long time, I think oncoming traffic might have seen my grin, right through my full face.

I was so excited that I texted my daughter in NYC to tell her where I was, forgetting it was 5 am there. I received an immediate question in reply, probably because she had not yet gone to bed, asking if I was going to have Bagel Sunday.

My dad lived less than 4 miles from us, in the house I had grown up in since 1st grade. Initially, he would show up at 9 am on Sunday mornings, toting the Boston Globe when we hadn't gone for a walk on Saturday eve, around Castle Island, picking up the paper when it hit the stands at midnight or so.
I would go out before he arrived, and get the smoked salmon, cream cheese, and bagels, make the coffee, and Martha, my dad, myself, and whatever guests had arrived, would read the paper and discuss noteworthy events, and any other interesting topics that might arise. Eventually, our kids participated, taking the ritual to NYC, where they continued the tradition. As bagels and and lox are not unknown there, finding the ingredients for Sunday breakfast is not too much of a sport, just a fun social event.

My dad kept arriving earlier and earlier as years passed, until 6.30 was not too early for him. Self imposed dietary restrictions caused us to change the menu to avocado from cream cheese. Conversation was always the prime reason for gathering, but the avocado was a hit.
One of the cool things my dad left behind was this ritual.
I responded to Maylis' text with this photo

Quote from: Pat Conlon link=topic=14660.msg148535#msg148535

I'd love to read how your desert crossing experience went. You obviously survived.  

/quote]


Hi Pat,

I wasn't sure, but Vlad confirmed this morning, that we took route 66 where we could, out of Needles, as far as Fenner. At that point 66 was closed due to flood damage to the road. We got on 40 at that point, and came into Barstow that way. One thing about 40 was that the cross winds were heavy that day. Vlad's Concours always seemed to get pushed around by the wind and trucks when he was over 80 mph, which he blamed on the Avon Storm. But leaving Needles, while trying to pass a tandem semi at high speed, I watched Peter's bike go into a head shake that blew me away. There's nothing worse than watching a friend go down, and I was sure Peter's predicament was going that way. It affects me now to think about. What came out of my mouth inadvertently and helplessly, while watching him in that moment was, "Oh Peter!... " Peter however is a resourceful sob, and he somehow slowed the bike down at a rate the progressively minimized the shake, until he had control of the bike again. When we stopped for fuel later we spoke about it a bit, then put it away, a little box of thoughts best left alone.

I rode route 1 through Oxnard and Ventura, before taking 154 just  north of Santa Barbara, eventually rejoining 101 by Los Olivos, and the coast at Pismo beach. Thinking that I would go to see the Hearst castle, where a grade school friend has been a conservator for a long while, I cut back onto route one, at San Luis Obispo, for Morro Bay, and rode along the coast. There was very little traffic, the vistas as good as it gets, and rather than go to the castle, I passed by the eastbound turn off, and kept gping. The road was not particularly challenging, until after Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park trail head, and continued for 25 miles up to Big Sur. Mostly, the challenge was not looking constantly at the view, as one swooped left and right, and up and down. Increasing traffic obscurred enjoying the road fully, which I think might be better realized on a weekday morning, but I knew I had reached what was, for me anyway, the west coast equivalent of the Blue Ridge Parkway, and what I had hoped to see all these years following my time in San Francisco.

Couple of more photos, the last one more for the remembrance that I took it a bit too dangerously, than for its clarity.

One strange thing that I noticed riding up through Big Sur, Carmel, and Monterrey, were how many Porsches contributed to the traffic on the coastal highway. I figured sports car drivers appreciated the twists, turns, and scenery, perhaps more than most on the road, but Man, there sure were a lot of Porsche out! I even saw what looked like a 917, and a real 550, go past me going south. It wasn't until I cut off onto route 68 towards Salinas, where I stayed the night, that I found Laguna Seca raceway, and a huge sign proclaimingthat it was Porsche weekend. The number of like branded vehicles coming in and out of the entrance way could have been bees buzzing around the hive, hundreds of them!

It also wasn't until I got to Salinas that I figured out where I was going to head, and how I was going to get home. I wanted to see my buddy Dick in Austin, and if I was going to go down that way, I wanted to stop in Santa Fe to see if I could find the woman in the market place there, who's beaded necklaces had so impressed my. I had gotten used to the idea of the prices she had quoted me, and figured I could splurge for a couple of gifts.

I had ruled out going further north because of concerns about cold and inclement weather, including the risk of snow.

I worked out a rough route that would take me down to Santa Fe from southwestern Colorado, then to Texas. From Austin, I would head to see a friend in Abbeville Louisiana, a Cajun Lebanese lawyer, Rosemary, who has been a family friend for many years. From there I would head to Barber, then up the Blue Ridge  perhaps stopping again to see my lovely ex-sister- in- law, Shirley on  the way. Anders said he might ride down to meet me at Barber, and Jim said he was game for riding the Blue Ridge again, and would meet me as well. Cool beans, as some say around here. I woke up Monday morning, after staying at a Motel 6 with no hot water. I'd eaten dinner in the Denny's Diner last night and found that the waitresses were tougher than the steak. I was up for trying though, and felt good when I got 3 or 4 of them to laugh or smile. Must be a tough gig!

I had spent a fair amount of time after dinner, programming the Garmin to take me up to the west entrance of Yosemite, as it looked like I could travel through the park, and come out in a good place in Nevada, where I could run across the state on secondary roads without having to go through Reno or Las Vegas, but right between the two. The one thing I couldn't quite understand is how long it would take to go through Yosemite. It wasn't clear that I could do so, but I decided to try to get into the park from Oakhurst rather than travel further outside the park lands to Mariposa to enter.

Cutting across route 5 on 152 through Los Banos, which I vaguely thought might translate disagreeably, up to Raymond, and then to Oakhurst on rt 41, about 2.5 hours from Salinas. I chatted with the woman working there, who told me her son liked to motorcycle but that she wouldn't get on the thing. I told her my mom had felt the same way until she finally relented. On our one and only ride around the block, she laughed so persistently and hysterically, that I never asked her to do so again. I spoke as well to the park ranger there, and the only other person in the place,, who sold me a park pass, and reassured me that I would be able to reach the park entrance at Tioga Pass, and my way to Nevada. Off I went to the land of Ansel Adams, and John Muir!

I tried not to, but with more traffic than I had anticipated, 25 mph speed limits, and an unknown amount of time across the park, I passed a lot of cars, and generally could have spent more time admiring the beauty of the place. Truth be told, I preferred being in places where the speed limits were more reasonable, and perhaps offered a sense of greater unpredictability. I felt strong, and wasn't afraid of nature, a little danger is the spice of life... what an idiot!

Quote from: azure on October 24, 2015, 02:11:31 PM
It also wasn't until I got to Salinas that I figured out where I was going to head, and how I was going to get home. I wanted to see my buddy Dick in Austin, and if I was going to go down that way, I wanted to stop in Santa Fe to see if I could find the woman in the market place there, who's beaded necklaces had so impressed my. (ME) I had gotten used to the idea of the prices she had quoted me, and figured I could splurge for a couple of gifts.

I had ruled out going further north because of concerns about cold and inclement weather, including the risk of snow.

I worked out a rough route that would take me down to Santa Fe from southwestern Colorado, then to Texas. From Austin, I would head to see a friend in Abbeville Louisiana, a Cajun Lebanese lawyer, Rosemary, who has been a family friend for many years. From there I would head to Barber, then up the Blue Ridge  perhaps stopping again to see my lovely ex-sister- in- law, Shirley on  the way. Anders said he might ride down to meet me at Barber, and Jim said he was game for riding the Blue Ridge again, and would meet me as well. Cool beans, as some say around here. I woke up Monday morning, after staying at a Motel 6 with no hot water. I'd eaten dinner in the Denny's Diner last night and found that the waitresses were tougher than the steak. I was up for trying though, and felt good when I got 3 or 4 of them to laugh or smile. Must be a tough gig!

I had spent a fair amount of time after dinner, programming the Garmin to take me up to the west entrance of Yosemite, as it looked like I could travel through the park, and come out in a good place in Nevada, where I could run across the state on secondary roads without having to go through Reno or Las Vegas, but right between the two. The one thing I couldn't quite understand is how long it would take to go through Yosemite. It wasn't clear that I could do so, but I decided to try to get into the park from Oakhurst rather than travel further outside the park lands to Mariposa to enter.

Cutting across route 5 on 152 through Los Banos, which I vaguely thought might translate disagreeably, up to Raymond, and then to Oakhurst( AND THE VISITOR CENTER THERE) on rt 41, about 2.5 hours from Salinas. I chatted with the woman working there, who told me her son liked to motorcycle but that she wouldn't get on the thing. I told her my mom had felt the same way until she finally relented. On our one and only ride around the block, she laughed so persistently and hysterically, that I never asked her to do so again. I spoke as well to the park ranger there, and the only other person in the place,, who sold me a park pass, and reassured me that I would be able to reach the park entrance at Tioga Pass, and my way to Nevada. Off I went to the land of Ansel Adams, and John Muir!

I tried not to, but with more traffic than I had anticipated, 25 mph speed limits, and an unknown amount of time across the park, I passed a lot of cars, and generally could have spent more time admiring the beauty of the place. Truth be told, I preferred being in places where the speed limits were more reasonable, and perhaps offered a sense of greater unpredictability. I felt strong, and wasn't afraid of nature, a little danger is the spice of life... what an idiot!

It would be so great if large format photos oriented correctly, rather than upside down or sideways, and modifying or editing capabililies of text and photos were not time limited, but I am very happy to be able to address this group. Thanks for your attention, and for reading my story!

Leaving the just about 10,000 ft elevation of Tioga Pass, I descended, somewhat thrillingly, down rt 120 towards Benton, route 6, and the Nevada state line. Not much traffic outside the park, and logging trucks, which were frequent road companions were much more easily passed on a motorcycle, than in the reverse situation on a bicycle. The amount of air displaced posteriorly, and laterally by a logging truck on  a downhill road at 50+ mph is plenty sufficient to push an unknowing bicyclist off said road, frequently onto a gravel, dirt, or non existing shoulder. I became so gun shy that, after several similar confrontations with minor injury while riding my bicycle across the Pacific Northwest in the 70s, I pulled off the road on mistakenly hearing a logging truck coming down a winding hill behind me, only to find it was a VW bug with a broken muffler. The fj is a good passing bike, and this is when having a 5 speed tyranny is a good thing.

I am pretty sure that most of us are always looking for the next upshift, that is not there. It doesn't seem to matter how many real cogs there are, there should always be one higher. BMW does a good job in this aspect with their transmissions. Although my experience through Beemer 4, 5 and 6 speed trans has not been the most endearing, I do like that in top gear, one can feel there are no more speeds available by simply pushing up with your foot. The spring like movement on doing so obviate the need to use the clutch. Riding the FJ,  I probably tried to shift into 6th hundreds of times, and still continue to do so. I have never understood why the box was never augmented with a 6th gear.


On the FJ, 5th gear is frequently more than ample for passing at any speed, on any road. Perhaps the Yamaha engineers employed the same motto my dental school instructors frequently tried to imbue us with 35 years ago, when techniques were not so digital, and highly technical, but involved considerable coordination and thought. "Use the KISS rule" they'd sometimes yell. Other times, when one had done something particularly wrong, they'd instead yell more revealingly, "Keep it simple , STUPID!!!"

I realized as I passed by Mono lake on my descent, that I was tired. I found, especially in the early afternoon, but sometimes even in the latter part of the morning, that I would start to fall asleep while riding. As foolish as it sounds to write, I did not initially stop when this occurred, somehow alternating between sleeping, hopefully for milliseconds, then startling myself on waking by finding that I was heading off the side of the road. On several occasions I continued in this fashion for what seemed like a long time, before either snapping out of it or stopping. On one afternoon, I actually awoke refreshed while still with the rubber side down. Though proud that I had accomplished something so foolhardy and bizarre, I knew the limitations of continuing,  and started to take a break as soon as I felt drowsy. The interesting thing I found from doing so, was that I did not necessarily need to sleep, just take a break, and further, the break needed only be a couple of minutes before I could get back on with newfound energy.

The accompanying photos are looking at Mono lake, and from the same spot, back at Yosemite, and from left to right,  Mts Dana, Tiogo, and Warren. Interesting to note that the elevation of Mono lake is almost 6400 ft.

Passing through Tonopah on rt 6, I realized I had been to most of the towns in the songs Willin, and Route 66. I was starting to sympathize 20th Dave Dudley's singing on 6 Days On The Road. I'd been out for more than 2 weeks by that point, and had covered a fair amount of ground. I was starting to think about the way home, as I rode up to Ely, where I spent the evening. Central Nevada struck me as a place that was still in a primitive or formative stage of development, as far as housing and the organization of the towns I passed through. Trailer parks, and inexpensive tract housing seemed to comprise the bulk of housing that I passed, with a lot of gravel, and construction businesses.

I wondered if it was kind of a guy oriented environment, as it reminded me of boys, playing in a sand box with trucks.

Photos are Ely at dusk, and at dawn the next morning.

I stayed on route 50 out Ely, until just after Salina, where it turned into route 70. There were long periods of time where I saw no other cars, or anything else for that matter, perhaps some wind turbines, and a couple of head of cattle. Scrubby and craggy high desert. This went on for several hundred miles, which because of lack of any other vehicles or diversion, went by quickly. At one point, I scared up a coyote by the side of the road, further along a cow crossed my path at 90 mph. Please allow me clarify, the cow was not doing 90! Not much else to recollect! Straight as an arrow for the most part,  hardly a building in sight. I was impressed by the sign I stopped to photograph though I can't say I noticed the prison.

As I neared the intersection of rt 70, where it crosses the Green River, the butte and mesas became more and more stunning. It dawned on me that the irregular red sandstone was ancient, having worn down considerably from its original size and dimension. I took a right on rt 191 towards Moab, past Arches Park, and feel that, geologically, this is the most spectacular area of the country that I have seen.

Moab seemed a big too young and sportive for me, tons of folks recreating by being active. All good, but serene and calm were not applicable descriptive adjectives here, and that's what I prefer. 191 is an awesome road to travel as a cycle tourist though, and there is something for everyone to do and see!

I took a left at Monticello onto rt 491, and crossed into Colorado. It seemed greener on the other side of the imaginary line, and more residential, with many visible homes and farms. I was immediate seen and followed by a member of the state's finest, which made me a bit self conscious. I'd ridden,  so far, without attracting any police attention, and was irritated to be under observation. He, or she, became bored with me after a few minutes and moved on, but the encounter made me wonder if I was returning to a more restrictive environment than I had grown accustomed to in more western  and less populated states. I begrudgingly paid greater attention to my rate of travel and who else was as well.

I reached Durango at rush hour, which is not the best hour to search for a place to stay. I had hoped to reach a niece who lives in the area, but after her sister in Santa Monica did not respond to my communications, I did not want to be disappointed twice. I ended up staying at the Adobe Inn, paying probably more than I needed to, but the desk clerk was a geology students at the local college, Fort Lewis,  who agreed with my rinding that the rock structures I had seen in Southeast Utah, were indeed very old and very worn, and besides, i was too tired to move on when he told me the room was 90 dollars, tax and breakfast included. I stayed, and we talked, or more accurately he told me about igneous versus sedimentary rock and how each is formed. Smart kid! I ordered a salad from the Subway across the street  and ate in my room, before going for a walk in search of the Durango Coffee Company, a ways down on Main Street from where I was staying. My photos of a couple of nice old buildings in the towns historic district, are a bit too dark, but the area was very pleasant to walk, and people were fun to speak with.

I rode into Santa Fe the next morning on route 84, getting there at about 11.30. Finding parking in the historic square, is a bit of a challenge, so after securing my bike in one of a few motorcycle only spaces, I hurried over to the market place in search of the young, middle aged woman I had spoken to the week before, hoping she had not gone to lunch. Not seeing her before the noon hour, I went in search of something to eat for myself. After a sandwich at an outdoor cafe, I stopped in at Tees and Skiis, across Washington Street from the market place. The two ladies working there, who's names are now lost to me, were a hoot, the t-shirt graphics beautiful, and best, they were happy to mail the shirts I selected to Boston, and did so before I left. Lovely place for inexpensive gifts, highly recommended.

I had parked next to a 90s HD Dyna, and when I returned to my bike before going into the marketplace again, I found the bike's owner hangling by his bike. He had ridden from some where near Gallup to sell his wares at the market. As we were talking, a two up Beemer 1200gs pulled into the vacant 3rd bike space. The guy from Gallup went back into the market, and I chatted with the newly wed Brit couple, who had shipped their bike over to Las Vegas with James Cargo, and were honeymooning for 5 weeks, eventually heading for NYC to travel back.  Wonderful kids!

Of course the artisan I was looking for was not at the market place that day. I figured ok, I tried, time to get going. I headed for Texas.

I headed out of Santa Fe on route 285 down to Vaughn, but ended up  turning to go east on us 40 to Santa Rosa.

Big business farming, giant ranches with millions of cows, it was getting dark when I reached that point, but I had read glowing reviews about the Executive Inn in Lubbock, and thought that if I could get there, I'd have an easy run to Austin the next morning, where I could spend the afternoon with my childhood friend. I took 84 south out of Santa Rosa, took a left at Fort Summer, and headed towards Clovis, passed it and went southeast at Farwell towards Lubbock. It was about 9 when I got there.  The Executive was almost through to the south side of what seemed to be an industrial town, perhaps where farmers would broker their crops and cattle. Lubbock seemed like a frayed and worn city, but at night how can anyone tell? It was too big for me though, and i wasn't ready for an urban setting.
The Executive sign was unobtrusive, on my left, and next to a used car dealership. It looked rough exteriorly, but I figured TripAdvisor and all manner of other online services rated it well, must be nice inside.

I introduced myself to the desk person, a small, sad eyed lady, perhaps in her late 30s or early 40's. I told her I wanted a room where I could see my bike. I didn't have time to mention non smoking before the kind, wan smile dropped from her face, and she related " I don't think we have anything for you." I told her that I was tired, and would take what ever she had. She took a key from the rack, and asked if I would take a look at the room, as it was the best she had.

The key didn't fit the lock which had been recently been replaced, along with a steel plate where the door had been violently broken. The second key did the trick. The room didn't look too bad, but I have become a bit wise in my travels, and checked the bathroom as well. I did not turn the light on, but the bottom of the bath glistened at me, disturbed by what appeared to be globules of some sort of fatty substances. I wasn't sure and put my shoe into the tub, immediately pulling it out, as the bath was half filled with the stuff. I walked back to the office, and thanked the lady for her trouble. I was tired when I had arrived, but the revulsion of being in that room energized me. I could ride down to Austin this eve, I thought, get there at 2 or 3, sleep a bit, and have the day to spend with Dick. I stopped for gas on the way out of town, but didn't stop to zip my coat up correctly until far out of Lubbock. I made it down about 20 miles to a small town called Post, where the quietly inviting sign from a Best Western caused the fj to turn into the drive before I had a chance to make up my mind. Clean, spacious, my bike under the roof over a side entrance
next to my room, the world was a safer, calmer place. I would be surprised to find myself in Lubbock Texas again.

It rained a bit early the next morning, but by the time I was ready to depart the Best Western, the heat of the arriving sunny morning had already dried the roads. I rode into Austin on rt 183, and found a brand new Motel 6 in Round Rock. It had been a very relaxed and quick ride along secondary roads that only became very congested with traffic within 10 miles of the downtown area.

I first came to Austin, sometime around 1976, staying in a big old Victorian style house on Guadaloupe, near the university,  that had been divided into student housing. Dick had moved down there sometime around then, following a girlfriend, who he had lived with in Wisconsin. In ensuing years, working for the state school for the blind, he had lived in a couple of other locations, lastly and for a long spell in a townhouse apartment on East 48 and 1/2 street. He had had a daughter Nicole, with another woman in 1980, but had lived solidarity since that time, bringing up Nicole on the half week schedule that a number of my friends abided after breaking up. Although I am perhaps his closest friend, he is not a great communicator, and at times word was sparse, however we met up every year, either when he visited New England to commune with the ocean, usually a shared day trip or two, where he swam, and I pretended to like the beach, or when I would go down to see him, usually in the winter or early spring, which is always a very good time to get out of the northeast.

I received a call from Nicole, who had married, and had her own daughter, in the summer of 2013, that her dad had had a stroke at work, and was in the hospital, but would be discharged soon to her care. I was relieved to speak with Dick soon following to know that he was intellectuslly intact, and to get the story of what happened first hand. Apparent closet drinking had brought with it a full blown case of diabetes, which his doctor had missed, and  diagnosed as a more benign incipient condition.   The stroke was a result of untreated diabetes, although Dick did not wish to find the doctor at fault.

I think my visit a week later was helpful for Nicole. Dick was unable to walk or use his left hand. Further, he could not bath or dress himself. Most difficult to observe was his inability to deal with his discomfort which he described as excruciating pain. The pain he felt and his reticence to try to rehab because of it, caused his placement in a nursing facility in the northwestern part of Austin, and this is where I visited him.

Although it was tough for me to see my old friend in such circumstances, we had a great time together Thursday afternoon, and again on Friday before I took my leave to head home. Circumstances there needed my attention.

The photos are of a ranch I passed coming into Austin, and of my friend and I sharing a great moment.

This has got to be the most epic RIDE REPORT ever.
I thoroughly enjoy reading about your trip and it has got me thinking about a epic journey myself.  :mail1:

Thank you for sharing your experience with the forum .  :good2: :drinks: :praising:   

What a great thought, thank you Mark.

The idea that writing about this trip has been inspirational makes me feel really wonderful. Thanks twice, and happy trails!!

I was getting some pressure to get home, as Martha had made an offer on some property in my absense, which was accepted, and as well put our house up for sale, and received immediate offers. Although I jokingly told some of our friends that she had done so in my absense, I had encouraged Martha to make these moves. Now, there was lots of work to be done, and she could not do it alone.

Perhaps a change of scenery would make life at home more enjoyable, I wasn't sure, but it was worth a try. We'd moved close to Boston in 1982, raised kids in a suburban city that we had never imagined living in, and stayed because of my dad. With the kids and my dad gone, there was no need to stay any longer, we were going back to a more rural environment. I asked Martha if I could stay out for another 10 days or so, and she seemed to be amenable.

I called Anders to see if he could meet me at Barber, only to hear that the weather for the next week was going to be a challenge due to Joaquin, a hurricane due to hit the Carolinas, and cause a mess up and down  the coast. He didn't think that it made any sense to travel towards the storm center, and neither did I. I needed some accurate weather predictions over the eastern portion of the country. Radar Now, the app I used, along with My Cast, another weather app, were helpful but I could only see radar around individual radar starions, usually associated with airports in a given region. I texted Jim, and as he always does, he came through with weather predictions culled from aviation radar on the AOPA, Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association, website. While this was a secure site, Jim told me that the weather data was from the NOAA website, and available to all at:
http://www.aviationweather.gov/adds/progs/nav?current=1 (http://www.aviationweather.gov/adds/progs/nav?current=1)

This information, and Jim's interpretation, saved me from getting sopped, and caused me to head north from Austin, towards St. Louis, when I left Austin Friday afternoon.
I had changed my oil and filter on Thursday night in the Motel parking lot, after making my customary oil container, and Castrol semi synth 20-50 purchases at Walmart. I actually could not see what I was doing, and did the work by feel, checking oil level when I had finished with the flashlight app on my cell phone.

I headed out of Austin on route 79, towards Tyler, and then Texarkana. I picked up rt 82 in Magnolia, and route 63, which I liked in Eldorado, making it up to somewhere near Pine Bluff, where I stayed the night.
On Saturday morning, I started up towards St. Louis. I had called Vlad to ask if I might stay with he and his family, and was greeted warmly on my arrival with open arms. The warmth was well appreciated, both for the affection that imparted it, and for the heat of the shower that greeted me. It had been a cold ride. I had stopped at a walmart to purchase an inexpensive polar fleece, but had to keep alternating hands in the space between the carb bowls and the top of the engine case to try to keep warm. This was made possible with an ingeniously simple device called the Go Cruise. For those that haven't used fhese, they are a piece of plastic that fits on the medial part throttle grip, and looks kind of like the eiffel tower. When the tower is rotated so that it is resting on the brake lever, it keeps the throttle position relatively stable. I had given my original and well loved plastic one to Peter, and was now using the adjustable aluminum model, which I found initially harder to use, but by now was comfortable with. It allowed me to rest and warm my right hand.

I headed up to Searcy on back roads, then tried riding 67 for a bit, but was chilled. I got off on 367 for gas and a more moderate pace. I made a lucky stop for coffee at Foster's Cafe in Tuckerman, and a lucky acquaintance with the young proprietors, who's grandmother, Joan had run the cafe until passing away a couple of years ago.
The food was good, and so was the ambiance and company. They were so friendly, I just had to take a photo..

I enjoyed riding rt 67 to 61 into St Louis, and was delighted to find Vlad's home, and family awaiting my arrival with big smiles, and much enthusiasm. Vlad's wife Maya, especially exudes a certain joyousness that is infectious. All are engaging, fun, and intellectually curious, which made for excellent conversation in general, and along with our wonderful dinner. Maya and Vlad's daughter Menea regaled and entertained us after dinner with her musical talents, which we enthusiastically applauded and toasted. I slept in the best bed of my trip, and in the best cirxumstances, surrounded by friends.

Folks shown are Maya, Vlad, and myself, with Maya and Vlad's son, Teo, and the ripstick he did a bang up job painting.

Thanks with love guys!

I spoke with Jim before leaving St. Louis, and he predicted that I would stay dry on my ride to Pittsburgh that day. Vlad had thoughtfully given me a pair of glove liners that I really liked, called Mountain Hard Wear. Unfortunately, the company no longer makes them. These were not needed on the ride to Pittsburgh, but were really needed the following day!

10 minutes after I left Vlad and Maya, I was across the Missippi, heading for Illinois. I stabbed on 70 across Illinois, and a little fog, but no rain, then Indiana, where I completely lost my rear brake again. I stopped behind a truck stop, and bled it out, but the banjo bolt into the master cylinder keeps loosening up, and I have not yet looked into replacing the bolt perhaps with a split washer behind the crush washer to retain it. In any case, I stopped once more for gas and a nutritious dinner on the Ohio- Pennsylvania line, before running into the worst traffic jam trying to get into Pittsburgh. Due to a closed tunnel followed by a series of single lane stop signs, incoming traffic was backed up for miles. I split lanes, and then somehow got a maintenance worker to allow me  to travel through the empty tunnel, on the 2 foot wide newly set asphalt strip that had been layed, perhaps as the median for the yet to be layed road? I was tired, and very glad to get to my niece's place on Squirrel Hill, where she was waiting for me. My brother in law and his wife also came over, and we had a lovely time finishing a bottle of wine, before I dropped onto a bed and passed out.
Photo is of my nutritious dinner that evening.

Quote from: Mark Olson on October 26, 2015, 02:12:05 PM
This has got to be the most epic RIDE REPORT ever.
I thoroughly enjoy reading about your trip and it has got me thinking about a epic journey myself.  :mail1:  

I'd have to respectfully disagree with you on this. :blush:

No disrespect to Azure, but I'm pretty sure Capn Ron wins the epic-ness of ride-report-dom.
http://www.fjowners.com/index.php?topic=10252.0 (http://www.fjowners.com/index.php?topic=10252.0)

No disrespect intended in response, but I feel that it is inevitable, after flapping my digital jaws for so long, that someone would respond to, and with, a side issue and place a link that was not germane to my intent in  writing this report.


I think I wanted to share my enthusiasm and the high that comes from making a trip or advemture. I also wanted to remember that feeling, and as well where I had been, and what I had thought about. Martha showed me a Robert Louis Stevenson quote the other day, that in effect, said the going is the getting there, "for my part, I travel not to go anywhere, I travel for travel's sake." Man, that says it for me!

In conclusion, I rode from Pittsburgh back to Boston, arriving conveniently at dinner time on Monday, October 5th. It had been a cold day, above the cloads at times, in the Allegheny hills. I got a ticket from a cop who said I was going 20 over, then busted me a ticket for 5 over and $100. after telling me about his own trip to Florida. Not sure whether to shake his hand or give him the finger.

All the things I was hoping to clarify on my trip are still mostly unresolved. I had no greater epiphany than realizing how great a gift it is to be able to go on a voyage, an adventure. A liberating and uplifting experience, a sense of accomplishment, at least to oneself, and some folks here who understand, and as one step leads to another, a source of experience and encouragement to take the next great adventure!

Best wishes to you all and thanks for sharing my trip with me!
Ben
P.S. Martha laughingly took the accompanying photo on my arrival.

 Nice report. Very good writing. Enjoyed riding along with you. I have done many trips and always seem to forget pictures. Good job.

Quote from: Firehawk068 on October 28, 2015, 08:37:17 AM

Quote from: Mark Olson on October 26, 2015, 02:12:05 PM
This has got to be the most epic RIDE REPORT ever.
I thoroughly enjoy reading about your trip and it has got me thinking about a epic journey myself.  :mail1:  

I'd have to respectfully disagree with you on this. :blush:

No disrespect to Azure, but I'm pretty sure Capn Ron wins the epic-ness of ride-report-dom.
http://www.fjowners.com/index.php?topic=10252.0 (http://www.fjowners.com/index.php?topic=10252.0)

Well I missed the capn post , so thanks for pointing it out 17,000mi.
Geez that was nuts. I must have been off the grid.

Quote from: Mark Olson on October 28, 2015, 08:35:50 PM
Well I missed the capn post , so thanks for pointing it out 17,000mi.
Geez that was nuts. I must have been off the grid.

Hugging your bike from below will do that to you...  :sarcastic:

Actually that was quite some time before so you get a pass on this. But do take the time to read up on Ron's post. It was well written and documented as well. Both ride reports are epic and inspiring, I have enjoyed them both and encourage anyone else to live behind bars, handle bars.... Keep the reports coming riders, FJ or otherwise. We live to ride and enjoy the journey, the destination is just an excuse....  :good2:

Quote from: fj johnnie on October 28, 2015, 06:54:59 PM
Nice report. Very good writing. Enjoyed riding along with you. I have done many trips and always seem to forget pictures. Good job.

Thanks Johnny,

Taking photos mostly means stopping, and our preference is to keep going!
All best to you

Thank you for all the time and effort you put into this report. I throughly enjoyed it.

All the best to you!

Pat

Quote from: azure on October 28, 2015, 10:17:06 AM
I think I wanted to share my enthusiasm and the high that comes from making a trip or adventure. I also wanted to remember that feeling, and as well where I had been, and what I had thought about.
"for my part, I travel not to go anywhere, I travel for travel's sake." Man, that says it for me!

All the things I was hoping to clarify on my trip are still mostly unresolved. I had no greater epiphany than realizing how great a gift it is to be able to go on a voyage, an adventure. A liberating and uplifting experience, a sense of accomplishment, at least to oneself, and some folks here who understand, and as one step leads to another, a source of experience and encouragement to take the next great adventure!

You certainly did a nice job of that!  :good:

In the end, that's what it's all about isn't it?.................Getting oneself "Out There"

There is a certain pleasure in reading someone's posts about their adventures, like this one, and enjoying the journey, as well as their perspective on it.....................It usually brings back memories of ones own journeys, and the yearn to go forth once more..................On that next adventure.  :good2:

Quote from: azure on October 29, 2015, 02:07:23 AM
Taking photos mostly means stopping, and our preference is to keep going!

I agree with you here on the subject. Sometimes it's a fine balance between getting along, enjoying the journey, and stopping to take record of it.

Some days, I just get on and enjoy the ride without taking a single picture. The purpose that day is just to enjoy being out in the environment.
Other times I just can't help myself. I see something and think to myself "This would make a great picture".

You did a fine job of it.
Perhaps one day, you'll attend one of the Rallies, and share accounts of past adventures around the campfire, in person. :drinks:

All best Pat! I look forward to meeting you, especially since Mike R speaks so highly of you, and I think highly of him!
Thanks,
Ben

Quote from: Firehawk068 on October 29, 2015, 11:32:33 AM
You certainly did a nice job of that!  :good:

In the end, that's what it's all about isn't it?.................Getting oneself "Out There"

There is a certain pleasure in reading someone's posts about their adventures, like this one, and enjoying the journey, as well as their perspective on it.....................It usually brings back memories of ones own journeys, and the yearn to go forth once more..................On that next adventure.  :good2:

Quote from: azure on October 29, 2015, 02:07:23 AM
Taking photos mostly means stopping, and our preference is to keep going!

I agree with you here on the subject. Sometimes it's a fine balance between getting along, enjoying the journey, and stopping to take record of it.

Some days, I just get on and enjoy the ride without taking a single picture. The purpose that day is just to enjoy being out in the environment.
Other times I just can't help myself. I see something and think to myself "This would make a great picture".

You did a fine job of it.
Perhaps one day, you'll attend one of the Rallies, and share accounts of past adventures around the campfire, in person. :drinks:

k


Thank you Firehawk!

Much appreciated coming from someone who both loves to have, and share their adventures.
There's no better socializing than with folks with common passion and experience, you bet I look forward to that!
All best to you!
Ben

Quote from: FJmonkey on October 28, 2015, 08:47:03 PM

Quote from: Mark Olson on October 28, 2015, 08:35:50 PM
Well I missed the capn post , so thanks for pointing it out 17,000mi.
Geez that was nuts. I must have been off the grid.

Hugging your bike from below will do that to you...  :sarcastic:

Actually that was quite some time before so you get a pass on this. But do take the time to read up on Ron's post. It was well written and documented as well. Both ride reports are epic and inspiring, I have enjoyed them both and encourage anyone else to live behind bars, handle bars.... Keep the reports coming riders, FJ or otherwise. We live to ride and enjoy the journey, the destination is just an excuse....  :good2:

Hey Monkey .....you are just jealous of the skills ..  :blum1:

Ben , Great job on the ride and report . As I mentioned before I believe it was an epic journey and report.. Thanks once again for sharing. :drinks:

Quote from: Mark Olson on October 30, 2015, 04:30:55 PM
Hey Monkey .....you are just jealous of the skills ..  :blum1:

Naw....  :blush: Just hoping I don't need to learn them skills....

Thanks for taking the time and effort to share with us... I thoroughly enjoyed it!  :good2:

Thank you to all! Please pm me if there is anything I can impart that might be helpful in support of your trip.  I am going to try to sneak in a ride today!

I don't know how well this post card has circulated, but this is my kind of routine!

It took me a while to catch up but it was worth it.  I really like these epic accounts.  When you start expressing things you think may be unique to you, only to realize there are many here who have comparable thoughts or experiences is enlightening.  Amongst my close circle of friends I have known for 40 years, I am the only one that rides.  Why is that?  Why wouldn't anyone want to do this?  The answers are here and in other trip reports.

Thanks for the write-up.  Now if only Cap'n Ron would get off his ass and peel off anoother 10,000 miles.  Winter is almost here and I will need something to read!   (popcorn)



My favourite lines


I had a lot of thinking to do. ...  Making this trip helped me come to a certain peace, not because I solved any great problems, but because all those jiggles and bumps on an undulating road kind of shake out the angst and anger one carries around sometimes without ever being aware of it.


Much of what you say will/has found kindred spirits on this site.  You don't realize these things on day/weekend trips.  It takes several days on the road to realize how much shit gets crammed into our brains.  Being able to focus on the ride and let everything else wick off of you is a great form of therapy.  Shrinks should stop prescribing Prozac and start giving out motorcycle licenses.  Focus enough and your immediate world is a bubble surrounding you, allowing the world to pass by you and contemplate at your leisure.  If I'm lucky, this sometimes happens to me.   :i_am_so_happy:


I trust the feeling that with age comes experience, perhaps because there seem to be dwindling other positive attributes that are in tandem with increasing age.

Yep, goin' there myself...   :wacko3:



I knew from previous, recent trips that I could no longer see clearly enough to rely on maps to guide me as I rode.

Phew!  And I thought it was just me!  I figure if I stop buying maps I could pay off a GPS in no time.   :biggrin:



Every town used to have a Main Street, just as every kid was named Billy or Susie.

Paintings by Norman Rockwell in my head.   :hi:



I love and abide the adage that if one does not care for more than one of New England's seasons, then one should move.

One of our Canadian icons of literary history, the late Pierre Berton once said (to paraphrase) "having to live through winter makes you appreciate summer that much more".  I still wouldn't mind knowing whats it's like to ride all year round though...   :scratch_one-s_head:




...and the unfortunately named Athol.

Maybe the person in charge of naming it had a lisp.   :sarcastic:



I realized on visiting Oxford, however,  that with the passage of time, several members of the student population looked like the grandchildren of friends...


I get that same feeling with some women at work.  Like my buddy told me, "Yes, you might be technically old enough to be their grandfather.  But your NOT their grandfather."  Does that seem creepy?   :blush:



I always wanted to be a writer, but it seemed too solitary, and I never worked at it. I love music, and even though I didn't feel as facile playing music as I did writing, I put my efforts into music as my primary pastime,

Good choice.  Musicians get the chicks.  Writers get the chicks with hairy armpits and legs.   :music:



... what makes what I've written enjoyable to look at, is that my thoughts are not unique, but perhaps very similar to what you might have also thought in the same place and time? Makes you consider what it is about riding, and perhaps more specifically cycle touring that attracts us.


Yes, it is exactly what you are writing about, and what others have done here also.  It's so hard to answer non-riders when they ask "Why do you like to ride a motorcycle?", without coming up with some cliched line out of The Wild One, or Easy Rider.  Everyone on this site knows why, and everyone else on this site can relate to it even if the basis for their desire or sense of enjoyment can be different.  Am I making sense?   :wacko3:




Finding a filter for the fj is not impossible, but not easy either.


On our way to the MotoGP in Austin in 2013 we stopped in Texarkana at a Yamaha dealer.  My brother needed a new rear tire, so I had them do an oil change.  After draining the oil, they went to grab an oil filter.... eventually they found one, in it's dusty box with the tape turned yellow.  The last one stuffed into the back of the shelf.  Boy was I "glad".   :shok:




Sleeping three in a room is an art I have yet to master.

Brings back distant memories.  I am the youngest of 10 children and remember sleeping two to a bed for years, and on occasion three if we had company staying over.  As the family grew up and out it expanded to three to a room, then two, then my own room by the time I was about 11.  Later in college, my roomate snored like a frieght train.  I got to throwing shoes at him to stop.  So yes, it is an art I have never mastered.   :blum1:



I even like the smell, blown past sometimes too quickly to smell the pine and moss,

The same experience driving through the Adirondack forest in northern New York state back in 1991.  The cedar groves creating an aroma I don't think Ive experienced since.    :smile:



I am pretty sure that most of us are always looking for the next upshift, that is not there. .... I probably tried to shift into 6th hundreds of times, and still continue to do so.

Maybe RPM could come up with a buzzer that sounds like that 'loser horn" from the Price is Right, for every time we try for 6th.     :biggrin:




I would be surprised to find myself in Lubbock Texas again.

Funny, you're not the first person I've heard that from!    :mocking:




...and the ripstick he did a bang up job painting.

OK. You got me here. What's a ripstick and why is it shaped like an hourglass?  I have to know!   :mail1:


Once again, great write up.   :good2:   :drinks:

Quote from: PaulG on November 06, 2015, 01:22:05 PM

Finding a filter for the fj is not impossible, but not easy either.


On our way to the MotoGP in Austin in 2013 we stopped in Texarkana at a Yamaha dealer.  My brother needed a new rear tire, so I had them do an oil change.  After draining the oil, they went to grab an oil filter.... eventually they found one, in it's dusty box with the tape turned yellow.  The last one stuffed into the back of the shelf.  Boy was I "glad".   :shok:

You guys know I have a fix for that...right?

The RPM spin on oil filter conversion (http://rpmracingca.com/proddetail.asp?prod=spinonfilteradapter) will allow you to go to any auto part store for your oil filters. Heck, I am sure there is even a oil filter at any Yamaha dealership that would screw on to the adapter as well...

Randy - RPM

Already got it. It was the first thing I bought from RPM.

Yep, the spin-on adapter is the gateway purchase to Moditus...

Quote from: PaulG on November 06, 2015, 01:22:05 PM
It took me a while to catch up but it was worth it.  I really like these epic accounts.  When you start expressing things you think may be unique to you, only to realize there are many here who have comparable thoughts or experiences is enlightening.  Amongst my close circle of friends I have known for 40 years, I am the only one that rides.  Why is that?  Why wouldn't anyone want to do this?  The answers are here and in other trip reports.

Thanks for the write-up.  Now if only Cap'n Ron would get off his ass and peel off anoother 10,000 miles.  Winter is almost here and I will need something to read!   (popcorn)



My favourite lines


I had a lot of thinking to do. ...  Making this trip helped me come to a certain peace, not because I solved any great problems, but because all those jiggles and bumps on an undulating road kind of shake out the angst and anger one carries around sometimes without ever being aware of it.


Much of what you say will/has found kindred spirits on this site.  You don't realize these things on day/weekend trips.  It takes several days on the road to realize how much shit gets crammed into our brains.  Being able to focus on the ride and let everything else wick off of you is a great form of therapy.  Shrinks should stop prescribing Prozac and start giving out motorcycle licenses.  Focus enough and your immediate world is a bubble surrounding you, allowing the world to pass by you and contemplate at your leisure.  If I'm lucky, this sometimes happens to me.   :i_am_so_happy:


I trust the feeling that with age comes experience, perhaps because there seem to be dwindling other positive attributes that are in tandem with increasing age.

Yep, goin' there myself...   :wacko3:



I knew from previous, recent trips that I could no longer see clearly enough to rely on maps to guide me as I rode.

Phew!  And I thought it was just me!  I figure if I stop buying maps I could pay off a GPS in no time.   :biggrin:



Every town used to have a Main Street, just as every kid was named Billy or Susie.

Paintings by Norman Rockwell in my head.   :hi:



I love and abide the adage that if one does not care for more than one of New England's seasons, then one should move.

One of our Canadian icons of literary history, the late Pierre Berton once said (to paraphrase) "having to live through winter makes you appreciate summer that much more".  I still wouldn't mind knowing whats it's like to ride all year round though...   :scratch_one-s_head:




...and the unfortunately named Athol.

Maybe the person in charge of naming it had a lisp.   :sarcastic:



I realized on visiting Oxford, however,  that with the passage of time, several members of the student population looked like the grandchildren of friends...


I get that same feeling with some women at work.  Like my buddy told me, "Yes, you might be technically old enough to be their grandfather.  But your NOT their grandfather."  Does that seem creepy?   :blush:



I always wanted to be a writer, but it seemed too solitary, and I never worked at it. I love music, and even though I didn't feel as facile playing music as I did writing, I put my efforts into music as my primary pastime,

Good choice.  Musicians get the chicks.  Writers get the chicks with hairy armpits and legs.   :music:



... what makes what I've written enjoyable to look at, is that my thoughts are not unique, but perhaps very similar to what you might have also thought in the same place and time? Makes you consider what it is about riding, and perhaps more specifically cycle touring that attracts us.


Yes, it is exactly what you are writing about, and what others have done here also.  It's so hard to answer non-riders when they ask "Why do you like to ride a motorcycle?", without coming up with some cliched line out of The Wild One, or Easy Rider.  Everyone on this site knows why, and everyone else on this site can relate to it even if the basis for their desire or sense of enjoyment can be different.  Am I making sense?   :wacko3:




Finding a filter for the fj is not impossible, but not easy either.


On our way to the MotoGP in Austin in 2013 we stopped in Texarkana at a Yamaha dealer.  My brother needed a new rear tire, so I had them do an oil change.  After draining the oil, they went to grab an oil filter.... eventually they found one, in it's dusty box with the tape turned yellow.  The last one stuffed into the back of the shelf.  Boy was I "glad".   :shok:




Sleeping three in a room is an art I have yet to master.

Brings back distant memories.  I am the youngest of 10 children and remember sleeping two to a bed for years, and on occasion three if we had company staying over.  As the family grew up and out it expanded to three to a room, then two, then my own room by the time I was about 11.  Later in college, my roomate snored like a frieght train.  I got to throwing shoes at him to stop.  So yes, it is an art I have never mastered.   :blum1:



I even like the smell, blown past sometimes too quickly to smell the pine and moss,

The same experience driving through the Adirondack forest in northern New York state back in 1991.  The cedar groves creating an aroma I don't think Ive experienced since.    :smile:



I am pretty sure that most of us are always looking for the next upshift, that is not there. .... I probably tried to shift into 6th hundreds of times, and still continue to do so.

Maybe RPM could come up with a buzzer that sounds like that 'loser horn" from the Price is Right, for every time we try for 6th.     :biggrin:




I would be surprised to find myself in Lubbock Texas again.

Funny, you're not the first person I've heard that from!    :mocking:




...and the ripstick he did a bang up job painting.

OK. You got me here. What's a ripstick and why is it shaped like an hourglass?  I have to know!   :mail1:


Once again, great write up.   :good2:   :drinks:

Hilarious and thoughtful responses Paul, I am glad some of this stuff rang true for you too!

I am also saving up a bunch of ride report reading to inspire me over the hibernation season. In some past years I've been able to find enough clear days to ride once a month through the winter, but last winter was particularly tough.  All best to you and happy trails!

Quote from: racerrad8 on November 06, 2015, 05:42:33 PM

Quote from: PaulG on November 06, 2015, 01:22:05 PM

Finding a filter for the fj is not impossible, but not easy either.


On our way to the MotoGP in Austin in 2013 we stopped in Texarkana at a Yamaha dealer.  My brother needed a new rear tire, so I had them do an oil change.  After draining the oil, they went to grab an oil filter.... eventually they found one, in it's dusty box with the tape turned yellow.  The last one stuffed into the back of the shelf.  Boy was I "glad".   :shok:

You guys know I have a fix for that...right?

The RPM spin on oil filter conversion (http://rpmracingca.com/proddetail.asp?prod=spinonfilteradapter) will allow you to go to any auto part store for your oil filters. Heck, I am sure there is even a oil filter at any Yamaha dealership that would screw on to the adapter as well...

Randy - RPM

I certainly am a big fan of RPM, but held off on the filter adapter because the original filters are relatively inexpensive. I didn't realize however the trouble to be had in tracking the little devils down. I am making my purchasing list, and checking it twice...

Quote from: FJmonkey on November 06, 2015, 08:14:28 PM
Yep, the spin-on adapter is the gateway purchase to Moditus...

Yep,
My gateway purchase as well.

Quote from: PaulG on November 06, 2015, 01:22:05 PM

One of our Canadian icons of literary history, the late Pierre Berton once said (to paraphrase) "having to live through winter makes you appreciate summer that much more".  I still wouldn't mind knowing whats it's like to ride all year round though...   :scratch_one-s_head:

I ask myself the same question every day.

Quote from: markmartin on November 07, 2015, 09:01:56 AM

Quote from: PaulG on November 06, 2015, 01:22:05 PM

One of our Canadian icons of literary history, the late Pierre Berton once said (to paraphrase) "having to live through winter makes you appreciate summer that much more".  I still wouldn't mind knowing whats it's like to ride all year round though...   :scratch_one-s_head:

I ask myself the same question every day.

I checked out where Hampden ME and Scarborough Ontario are, and hope you can both console yourselves  with the knowledge that when riding is possible, you guys are in really nice places to do it!

Back in 2008, I met my nephew in Dallas at the beginning of March where we rented bikes from Ryder rental, and spent 5 days and 1800 miles riding down to and around Big Bend. Although I have not been able to do it since, I still rely on the thought that, when going from the house to the car is an arduous and sometimes dangerous endeavor, there is a place that is 85 degrees and possible to get to.

Then again  there's always this...

Quote from: azure on October 29, 2015, 11:54:15 AM
All best Pat! I look forward to meeting you, especially since Mike R speaks so highly of you, and I think highly of him!
Thanks,
Ben

everyone that has met those two fine gents thinks highly of them.

Quote from: racerrad8 on November 06, 2015, 05:42:33 PM
You guys know I have a fix for that...right?

The RPM spin on oil filter conversion (http://rpmracingca.com/proddetail.asp?prod=spinonfilteradapter) will allow you to go to any auto part store for your oil filters. Heck, I am sure there is even a oil filter at any Yamaha dealership that would screw on to the adapter as well...

Randy - RPM

I have to share something pretty wonderful that happened to me today. I am not sure if this is the best place to put it, or if doing so with a copy of the note that I just received and the response I sent, will illustrate what accompanied the note. This doesn't happen much to me, hell it never happens.

Ben,
This is a gift from a forum member. He wishes to be anonomous.
Robert Raduechel



Dear Robert, and the wishing to remain anonymous *****,

I am bowled over by your generosity. I must be getting soft in my old age, as the idea of a gift, given for no other reason than goodness of heart caused a tear. Perhaps being the recipient of such a kindness in the face of the terror that was visited on some of our friends in Paris last eve informs my emotional state, but this in no way detracts from the goodness of your gift, or my appreciation for all the help and support you have given me.

Thank you with my best wishes!
Ben

Quote from: azure on November 14, 2015, 11:45:59 AM

Quote from: racerrad8 on November 06, 2015, 05:42:33 PM
You guys know I have a fix for that...right?

The RPM spin on oil filter conversion (http://rpmracingca.com/proddetail.asp?prod=spinonfilteradapter) will allow you to go to any auto part store for your oil filters. Heck, I am sure there is even a oil filter at any Yamaha dealership that would screw on to the adapter as well...

Randy - RPM

I have to share something pretty wonderful that happened to me today. I am not sure if this is the best place to put it, or if doing so with a copy of the note that I just received and the response I sent, will illustrate what accompanied the note. This doesn't happen much to me, hell it never happens.

Ben,
This is a gift from a forum member. He wishes to be anonomous.
Robert Raduechel



Dear Robert, and the wishing to remain anonymous *****,

I am bowled over by your generosity. I must be getting soft in my old age, as the idea of a gift, given for no other reason than goodness of heart caused a tear. Perhaps being the recipient of such a kindness in the face of the terror that was visited on some of our friends in Paris last eve informs my emotional state, but this in no way detracts from the goodness of your gift, or my appreciation for all the help and support you have given me.

Thank you with my best wishes!
Ben

It's pretty tough to find finer folks than FJOwners..... :good: just more evidence of that.

 I too have received gifts from FJ owners. More than once. They are a great group. I have also paid it forward to others. John

Impressive group of folks this is, in many ways. I received a note from Randy Raduechel relating that it was not he who sent my gift, but a third party who apparently has done this with some frequency for other forum members anonomously. I am moved! To whoever you are, thank you both for my gift, and for your act of giving.

Sorry I'm so late to the party, but this was a terrific read.  Thanks so much.
As an original purchaser of a '85 FJ1100 I can add that the anti-dive units are worthless, however, don't just block them off.  The two passages need to be cross connected so that fork oil can travel between them.
Jack

Thanks Jack,

For your kind words as well as advice. My concern is to have no communication between braking and suspension. I am not certain that I can sense small discrepancies between damping in one fork vs the other due to hopefully small differences in fork oil quantity. Is that what the crossover would equalize?
Once again, thanks!

There are anti dive blank off's that you can buy (I have seen them on here somewhere)  that have the oil galleries. These do not cross over between the forks, but allow the oil to flow as it should around each individual fork.

Quote from: azure on November 15, 2015, 06:09:51 AM
Impressive group of folks this is, in many ways. I received a note from Randy Raduechel relating that it was not he who sent my gift, but a third party who apparently has done this with some frequency for other forum members anonomously. I am moved! To whoever you are, thank you both for my gift, and for your act of giving.

In relation to this group and paying it forward. I belive that this group, and FJers in gereral, are some of the most giving , and patient, people is have ever had the pleasure of meeting. I have recieved thier kindness and payed it forward on many occasions, and will happily do it again.  :praising:

Mark

Quote from: Urban_Legend on January 31, 2016, 05:18:36 PM
There are anti dive blank off's that you can buy (I have seen them on here somewhere)  that have the oil galleries. These do not cross over between the forks, but allow the oil to flow as it should around each individual fork.

Here they are for $100!!  -seem pricey but it gives you the idea...

http://www.demonspeedracing.com/product_info.php?products_id=70 (http://www.demonspeedracing.com/product_info.php?products_id=70)

Dan

Thanks to all for the idea of blocking these units. If anyone has a minute to explain why isolating the unit from brake fluid is not adequate to keep the valve from actuating, I'd appreciate it.
Best to all!

If you don't want to spend the $$$ for the block off plates. And you don't mind a slightly less finished look, take the tops off your AD units and flip the lower units upside down. Remove the excess brake lines and you have the same functioning thing as the $100 units. Then if you really want a more finished look, spend the money. I know a few members that have done that, so it can be done.

Thank you Fjmonkey!

Quote from: azure on February 06, 2016, 10:46:26 AM
Thank you Fjmonkey!

Happy to help, that is what is so good about this site, all the help and contributions that improve our FJs and our love to ride them.  :drinks:

Now you can spend that $100 on other more useful modifications like RPM fork valves...

Thanks! I used a set of those gold valves in a set of Goldwing forks I put on my my cb750, good stuff!

The gold valves are much better than our stock forks, but I am talking about the RPM valves. I have no personal experience with the gold valves but many that used them liked them a lot. I do have personal experience with the RPM valves. I went from stock forks to the RPM valve, night and day difference. The front felt firmly planted in the twisties and minor bumps simply vanished. The dots glued to the freeway lanes now feel like they are just paint. I can sense that I am hitting them so more like thick paint.

http://www.rpmracingca.com/prodimages/large/M%20C%20RPMForkValve-1.jpg (http://www.rpmracingca.com/prodimages/large/M%20C%20RPMForkValve-1.jpg)

(http://www.rpmracingca.com/prodimages/large/M%20C%20RPMForkValve-1.jpg)

That sounds like as good an endorsement as could be offered! I am in the midst of renovating a home we just purchased, and am feeling, shall we say, less than flush, as we haven't sold the old place yet. However, that's a modest price compared to the gold valves, and since I stripped my fj down for a thorough pre-Spring cleaning...!

Quote from: azure on February 06, 2016, 07:54:08 PM
That sounds like as good an endorsement as could be offered! I am in the midst of renovating a home we just purchased, and am feeling, shall we say, less than flush, as we haven't sold the old place yet. However, that's a modest price compared to the gold valves, and since I stripped my fj down for a thorough pre-Spring cleaning...!

I forgot to mention that for me it had one major side effect. My old stock rear shock was suddenly drawing my attention in a bad way. Considered your self warned...

Ugh, I replaced my original shock with someone's new takeoff, done 30 years previously, but the price of rear shocks are... shocking! Did you replace, and what with?

Quote from: azure on February 06, 2016, 08:16:39 PM
Ugh, I replaced my original shock with someone's new takeoff, done 30 years previously, but the price of rear shocks are... shocking! Did you replace, and what with?

I liked the RPM fork vales so much I took a nice size bonus from work and got an RPM shock and exhaust... The exhaust has no direct impact on suspension other than it is damn light over the stock system. Less weight on our pig heavy FJs is always good (it also sounds damn good). I am very happy with how my FJ rides the canyons and mountain roads. Take care of home and family first, save up and spend when you can afford it.

I thought it might be more interesting to revive this thread, to add context to the addendum that follows. If moderators feel it would be better to place it in a new thread, I am happy to port it to one.

I had not ridden my FJ since completing the ride and the thread above, in October 2015. I had stored the bike, and done some maintenance over a couple of months after returning, such as replacing the front tire, which had made the whole trip, as well as some mileage before, replaced carb diaphragms with RPM parts, battery etc. Moving residences and building a new home had put bikes, this one in particular, on a back burner. When I finally attempted to start it last Spring, I could not get it to elicit any more impetus than what the starter was providing. I ended up figuring that I had somehow messed up in rebuilding the carbs when I replaced the diaphragms and slides, which had a different cutout than the originals, even though I had never run gas through them until trying to start it at that time. I had a spare CDI unit, and both produced the same amount of spark, gas was reaching the carbs etc....I let it slide, and went on to other tasks until asking my friend Anders to help me. Anders was the same fellow who assisted me in initially reviving the bike when I made my initial trip. The attached photos were taken before putting the bike on the trailer to take up to Anders in New Hampshire last weekend. I was hoping that I might get the bike ready for a July departure from MA to make a trip to revisit the Pacific northwest, eventually to make it to Anchorage. I had been up there once before, close to 50 years ago on a bicycle trip along a similar route, foiled from making it to Alaska by the gravel road surface of the Alaskan Highway at that time, and the unceasing line of tractor trailers that pelted my companion and myself with stone, nearly contacting us while doing so. This was a bucket list opportunity to take the FJ, a proven, if aged veteran of journeying, with me of similar description on perhaps what is our last epic ride.

Well, I have a setback...was informed that #2 cylinder has 95 lbs pressure, and is leaking through the inlet side of the head...anybody have a head they want to part with? I will eventually refurbish miine, but it'll take me too long to do so to get on the road this year.... I find it easier to accept obstacles as I get older, even if I still don't like 'em! Thanks for any help!

I have a spare head that could use new valve stem seals. The head was removed from my 1995 FJ a bit over a year ago. If interested, make me an offer. Shipping from Kansas may be in the $75.00 range.

Mileage on the head was roughly 55,000



Fred

Hello Fred,

Thanks very much for your offer, and hope all is getting better in KS. I am hoping to find a head that I don't have to service before taking a long trip. That might well be impossible to do, in which case I will service mine, and wait until next year, when I can leave in the middle of June, and not hit snow coming back.

Much obliged in any case, with my best regards, Ben

Quote from: aviationfred on May 20, 2021, 06:28:07 AM
I have a spare head that could use new valve stem seals. The head was removed from my 1995 FJ a bit over a year ago. If interested, make me an offer. Shipping from Kansas may be in the $75.00 range.

Mileage on the head was roughly 55,000



Fred

Awesome collection of Yamahas in the garage!

Quote from: fj1289 on May 20, 2021, 09:18:44 PM
Awesome collection of Yamahas in the garage!

Not sure if you were referring to my garage, but if so, thank you! Yamaha had some of the coolest and most unusual features, at least to me, of all the motorcycle manufactures I have been exposed to. The tx650 had a starter that was actuated by the compression release, I will have to look, but think that is so. The srx-6 has an auto compression release that is actuated by the kick starter..the RZ350 is watercooled, as 2 strokes run stronger when cooler...stuff like that, for me, is very enticing.

I will look for direction from the forum's moderators if I am overstepping in attempting to continue my journey with this FJ1100 that the bike and I started in the Fall of 2014.

Having tried to resurrect my bike in 2021, I stripped the bike down. At that time Rick Stetson and Harry's machine shop in Westborough MA were not in operation, and I used another, highly qualified shop, ABT Machine company, in Holliston MA to mill the valve seats and deck the head. As well, they did an excellent job of milling the ends of the valve stems so that I was able to re-use the same shims...this impressed me considerably. I have to admit to losing steam for the project after re-seating only one valve. Months dragged by, as did 2023, when I hoped to make one last long distance trip on both the bike and myself. Finally at the end of 2023, I asked my dear friend Mike Rieck( a good friend to many on this forum) for help in getting the engine back together. I don't think there will be much dispute in the idea that a dear friend is someone who comes through when one needs them. Mike has done so for me and many others repeatedly, if not constantly over the years. He does so not only because he loves mechanical things, and modifying them to make the better, but also because doing so creates a wonderful social network. Mike is a people fellow, and he is dear to me...Mike ported the head after installing the remaining 15 valves...I am sure he also lapped them a bit too, knowing him! I in turn, purchased a Dyno 2000 to replace a CDI unit that I was always a little suspect of, and as well a set of Mikuni rs carbs. Picked up the engine around Christmas, and it's still sitting where I left it in the garage...so...

I now come here to seek inspiration to continue the resurrection of this bike...am hoping to garner some inspiration from You...somewhat similar to religion I suppose, I come here looking for your support, hoping it will kick my keister into gear, and allow me to get out on my target date of June 29th.

This year marks my 70th turn around the sun, and as well the 50th anniversary of a trip I made in 1974, on a bicycle from metro Boston on a quest to get to Alaska. While the road condition(rough gravel in parts) and heavy truck traffic  made the Alcan Highway impassible for my friend Mark and I, we continued instead southwest to the west US coast, and back. That trip was a high point in my life, and perhaps the source of my love for long distance motorcycling. Being able to do so on this 40 year old motorcycle seems symmetrical, reinforced by the echo of my old friend Anders who while helping me to purchase this FJ out of a Vermont barn after many years of disuse, uttered "anybody can ride a new motorcycle long distance". This challenge fueled me to take this bike for the trip I wrote about previously, in 2015. While its sentiment continues to rattle around in my head, much of my impetus now comes from wanting to rattle the bars dictated by advancing years...A good part of what I have patted myself on the back for over the years has been my good fortune in being able to see this country and meet it's people, in most cases without sheet metal between "me and them"..I firmly continue to believe that it's the most satisfying way to do so. With your encouragement, and the permission of the forum, I look forward to continuing my journey with my FJ. Thanks for kicking my butt...gently please!

I like the phrase "you don't quit riding because you get old, you get old because you quit riding"!

Quote from: fj1289 on March 24, 2024, 07:37:17 PMI like the phrase "you don't quit riding because you get old, you get old because you quit riding"!

Thanks, I like that too!