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Motorcycling Lifestyles
BIKES: Bambi Is Only A Cartoon
Riding out here is a constant meditation on several things at once: road surface, oncoming vehicles, the steepness of the land and the occasional deer waiting for their chance at suicide by rolling torque...
Mother nature gives us this wondrous west coast volcanic and earthquake topography, this flawless weather, this miracle of stored energy in fossil fuels. (Photo: Will Guyan)
I was ripping around the esses between the coast and the inland vineyards the day after the Independence Day fireworks. The day was a gift from Odin and the light was perfect for viewing the scant hundred feet ahead before the next blind turn. Traffic was slight; almost non-existent, and I had a harmonious rapport with KTM, Michelins and asphalt going on at a steady 55-60 mph. When you can only see a hundred feet ahead, 60 mph is mouth- breathing territory riding on the cheese-grater roller coaster, wondering if the nylon will really stop the burn of the tar and gravel from reaching your pointy bits. I take special care around these roads because there is frequently some yahoo half in my lane, buttered with pot and Chivas Regal, and seeing double. But not today.
So I flew along, happy as a teenager who’s finally used that foil wrapper he’s been toting in his wallet. Sliding left and right on the seat as the apexes presented themselves one after another. Front wheel felt like a 17 incher. Temperature was about 70 F. and the sky was as blue as Cindy Robert’s eyes back in high school. My mind flew like a red tail hawk, but my years of riding on the edge kept me safely on auto pilot as I knew this road well, from thirty five years of using it as my personal cathedral. It’s impossible to count the turns; I have tried repeatedly.
Mother nature gives us this wondrous west coast volcanic and earthquake topography, this flawless weather, this miracle of stored energy in fossil fuels. But nature also mandates that we share the planet with a host of unpredictable winged and four legged fauna, and some are potentially deadly when they decide to make the asphalt their dinner table, or decide to make a suicidal run for the other side of the road, like a 200 pound meat missile. Sometimes we skate past the devil’s wings, and other times we get nailed. Some of these glancing encounters are quite close, let me tell you.
That KTM twin is pure fun. The tires are already cupped at the edges. Expensive hobby, right? I got the Vampire Detector on board. That gives me peace of mind when doing The Pace in a 25 mph zone. There’s nothing like taking a nice corner and hearing the warning buzzer, fingering the brake lever and slowing past The Man, doing the legal limit. I can’t resist the urge to wave! Sometimes you have to make your own luck. You can’t ride these unpainted lanes much beyond 60 mph anyway, or you might blow a corner, and that’s a scary thought. The creek beds are always 100 feet below, and the only guardrails are tan bark oaks.
I stopped at a steep place where the river runs through a huge culvert beneath the road. I’ve always been curious but didn’t take the time to have a look. I edge-walked the steep hillside down through the oaks and madrones. A 45 degree hillside and the trees know which end is up, growing straight as arrows. The little things amaze me. Along the riverbank there are dozens of rusted steel rock drill bits discarded long ago by the road crews. They’re bent and clustered, sticking out of the hillside like post-apocalyptic proof of civilization. They’ll be there sticking out long after I’m gone, and that’s always a sobering thought. Better get back on and burn some gas!
The big Adventure bike is on rails. You can thread the needle and choose your line anywhere in a turn. It’s planted and gives lots of feedback. The rear will spin out of corners if you don’t watch out. This bike is going to be my doctorate in throttle control. If anything, it’s geared too high, and I’m awaiting new, lower-geared sprockets. Right now, 6th gear is useless, and first’s too tall. But the fork and shock are dialed in out of the crate. The machine stays in touch with the road surface despite the bumpy nature of these paintless, narrow lanes. The roads are pockmarked, gouged, cracked, sunken, broken up and there’s always gravel hidden somewhere in the corner. These roads force you to become a good rider. There’s no alternative, except giving up. And that’s not an option. County road crews coming to fix them? This is California and everybody’s broke, so we ride on what we find. Even the cops are laid off out here in the sticks.
So I flew along, happy as a teenager who’s finally used that foil wrapper he’s been toting in his wallet. Sliding left and right on the seat as the apexes presented themselves one after another. Front wheel felt like a 17 incher. Temperature was about 70 F. and the sky was as blue as Cindy Robert’s eyes back in high school. My mind flew like a red tail hawk, but my years of riding on the edge kept me safely on auto pilot as I knew this road well, from thirty five years of using it as my personal cathedral. It’s impossible to count the turns; I have tried repeatedly.
Mother nature gives us this wondrous west coast volcanic and earthquake topography, this flawless weather, this miracle of stored energy in fossil fuels. But nature also mandates that we share the planet with a host of unpredictable winged and four legged fauna, and some are potentially deadly when they decide to make the asphalt their dinner table, or decide to make a suicidal run for the other side of the road, like a 200 pound meat missile. Sometimes we skate past the devil’s wings, and other times we get nailed. Some of these glancing encounters are quite close, let me tell you.
That KTM twin is pure fun. The tires are already cupped at the edges. Expensive hobby, right? I got the Vampire Detector on board. That gives me peace of mind when doing The Pace in a 25 mph zone. There’s nothing like taking a nice corner and hearing the warning buzzer, fingering the brake lever and slowing past The Man, doing the legal limit. I can’t resist the urge to wave! Sometimes you have to make your own luck. You can’t ride these unpainted lanes much beyond 60 mph anyway, or you might blow a corner, and that’s a scary thought. The creek beds are always 100 feet below, and the only guardrails are tan bark oaks.
I stopped at a steep place where the river runs through a huge culvert beneath the road. I’ve always been curious but didn’t take the time to have a look. I edge-walked the steep hillside down through the oaks and madrones. A 45 degree hillside and the trees know which end is up, growing straight as arrows. The little things amaze me. Along the riverbank there are dozens of rusted steel rock drill bits discarded long ago by the road crews. They’re bent and clustered, sticking out of the hillside like post-apocalyptic proof of civilization. They’ll be there sticking out long after I’m gone, and that’s always a sobering thought. Better get back on and burn some gas!
The big Adventure bike is on rails. You can thread the needle and choose your line anywhere in a turn. It’s planted and gives lots of feedback. The rear will spin out of corners if you don’t watch out. This bike is going to be my doctorate in throttle control. If anything, it’s geared too high, and I’m awaiting new, lower-geared sprockets. Right now, 6th gear is useless, and first’s too tall. But the fork and shock are dialed in out of the crate. The machine stays in touch with the road surface despite the bumpy nature of these paintless, narrow lanes. The roads are pockmarked, gouged, cracked, sunken, broken up and there’s always gravel hidden somewhere in the corner. These roads force you to become a good rider. There’s no alternative, except giving up. And that’s not an option. County road crews coming to fix them? This is California and everybody’s broke, so we ride on what we find. Even the cops are laid off out here in the sticks.
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