9000 miles on an 84 fj

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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!

[Pat Conlon]

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.  

[FJmonkey]

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

[Pat Conlon]

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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