9000 miles on an 84 fj

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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.

[Mark Olson]

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.

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

[Pat Conlon]

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.

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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
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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.

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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.

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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?

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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!

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

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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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,