…Hooked by my Himalayan…
From the outside looking in, a cult seems to embody some sort of collective allegiance to a concept, product or a leader that is patently false. History is full of cults. Contemporary societies, too. Examples?
1. False Products: Fizzies (remember those?), Beanie Babies, Coors Light.
2. False Leadership: [fill in the blank]
3. False Prophets: Jim Jones, David Koresh and others.
Typically, I’m thinking, cult membership is a response to a need for comfort, answers to tough questions or maybe simply a desire to belong. Sadly, the result of cult membership can often to lead to lost dreams, lost potential, lost savings and sometimes, loss of life itself. (See item 3, above)
But not always.
Membership in the cult to which I belong began innocuously enough. The plan was to accompany a buddy on his first motorcycle trip over the vaunted Beartooth Pass between Montana and Wyoming.
However, the one-week timeframe I’d set aside for the round trip wouldn’t allow for the 2400 mile round trip on my Yamaha Super Tenere. Perhaps I could find an alternative. A little internet search and I found a gentleman outside of Red Lodge who owned a small fleet of Royal Enfield Himalayan dual sport single cylinder machines. He rented them out to folks who, like me, wanted to explore the impressive Absarokas, but lacked the time to ride to and from. Rugged looking thumpers, stats showed they pumped – well, squeezed – out 22 horsepower, about a fifth of my big Yamaha’s grunt. I wondered if the little machine could haul my ample rear end up and around the winding Beartooth Highway to 11,000+ feet in elevation.
My first motorcycle was actually referred to as a “motor-driven cycle.” Purchased new from the Honda shop a half mile from my home in Chico, the Trail 90 banged out seven horses, requiring me to ride on the shoulder of any state highway that might lead me to a Lassen or Plumas National Forest road.
But the thing got 100 miles to the gallon and with that 1.1 gallon tank, I could go… well… about a hundred miles on 26 cents worth of gas. I bought the little Honda after obtaining a loan from Laurentide Finance and, for a while it being my only vehicle, put ten thousand miles on it in less than three years. The adventures on that yellow step-through remain a half-century later. Cheap transportation, Cheap explorations. Cheap adventures. Cheap fun. (And no, Mom, I wasn’t likely to kill myself on the damned thing; or even get too banged up.)
My view of the Himalayan was that it was a throwback to my Trail 90.
Cheap, rugged, light and it would take great effort for me to kill myself on one. The only question was, as stated above, would it haul my 220+ pound carcass up the Beartooth Highway from Red Lodge to Cooke City without holding up my buddy on his big Triumph? The posted speed limit of 35 for the bulk of the 68-mile trek would help and, the day before the big adventure, I test-ran the bike and found it could cart me around at 60-plus miles per hour so long as those miles weren’t particularly uphill.
After orienting myself to the quirks of the little 411cc powerplant, I was ready to join my pal and head up and over Beartooth.
He, on his Triumph Triple, soon left me with nothing but his fading exhaust note.
Everybody else in the world who enjoyed two wheels must have been on the Beartooth Highway that day. Nobody was traveling too fast. The scenery was simply too spectacular to race through. Wide spots and scenic viewpoints dotted the route and I found myself stopping at damned-near every one, along with hordes of others that day, including the boys on the big bad American Iron. Pulling into one, I parked next to a beautiful blue bagger just as the rider and his mate were about to saddle up.
“What the hell is that thing?” he asked stepping forward for a look.
“Royal Enfield,” I said. “Comes from India, of all places.”
“Sounds British.”
“It once was,” I said and I related a little bit of history I’d learned while researching the brand and model.
A couple of other riders joined in. “How long you had it?”
“Three days.”
“New?”
“Nope. A rental. I’m on a bit of a short timeframe. I live in California and left my FLNCH (I guessed at the Harley designation) home,” I lied. (Forgive me, Lord.) “A guy rents ‘em out of Red Lodge.”
We chatted a bit and soon the big boys were off. But it wouldn’t be our last conversation of the day. With almost every viewpoint would come the question, “What do you think of it now?”
What I thought about it was this: The Himi could accomplish highway-esque speeds, but I didn’t think that was the point. Roomy for my 34-inch inseam, upright seating that meant taking the wind head on, light and flickable even with the semi-knobby tires, it hadn’t taken me long to begin to enjoy the alpine environs and not think about the little burro that was hauling me along. Primarily, it reminded me of the simple pleasures I’d enjoyed on that Honda 90 so many years before.
The day’s journey was more than fine; and I had something to compare it to. Years before, returning from South Dakota on a BMW GSA, I took a wrong turn while searching for the road to Cody and found myself on the Beartooth Highway. That day, too, was spectacular, but this day was its equal. And I think this was when I got sucked into the cult.
Over the years since that second ride on the Beartooth Highway, I’ve traded one bike for another, finding myself more than enamored with Italy’s Moto Guzzi marque. Established a year before BMW and still manufactured in the same factory on Lake Como, Guzzi may be another two-wheeled cult to which I belong. I’m on my third sample.
As fate would have it, my current Guzzi, under warranty, somehow developed a crack in the fuel bladder and the part had to be shipped from Europe. There was a new model just like mine on the showroom floor, and had the shop been an enthusiast’s shop they’da pulled the bladder out of the floor model and sent me on my way. But unlike A&S in Roseville or Dave Richardson’s shop in the Seattle area or AF-1 in Austin, this was not an enthusiast’s shop. It was simply a dealership. One that carries, Guzzi, Aprilia, BMW, Zero (electric), Vespa and… wait for it… Royal Enfields. An unsold, year old Himi with a striking red and black tank was drawing me near.
I was eyeballing it and about to swing a leg over to try out the seat when: “Do you want to kill some time and take it for a spin?” the sales guy asked.
A wiser me would have said, “No thanks.”
The Guzzi and the Himi live side-by-side in my garage. The former great for 150-mile packed-side-case runs to Chico to see family or multi-day tours into Oregon or across the Sierra or down the coast. Powerful. Comfortable. Head turning Italian flair. Sweet!
The Himalayan is utilitarian, suited for simpler tasks. Basically I use for those thirty-minute errands to the neighboring town to buy a book, or hit the hardware store, or pick up a cigar or a reputable bottle of scotch. Curiously, those little jaunts never only last a half hour. With redwoods and riverbanks and vineyards and cresting hills, it’s easy to lull myself into a mini-tour – the Mendocino National Forest with its miles of unpaved roads isn’t all that far away – and find, again, the simple pleasures of the basic bike. The Honda 90 stuff I grew up with, upgraded with just enough juice to cart me around and not hold up other traffic.
But age 73 is rearing up to slap me in the face. A-fib, or something like it, is reminding me of how few chapters – or miles – might remain. Mom’s voice echoes, do you want to kill yourself on that damned thing? and I find myself admitting that longer-distance touring may be safer in the Subaru than on the Guzzi. With that in mind, I’ve been giving serious consideration to admitting my place in life and selling both bikes.
But my heart of hearts – occasionally aching though this one might be – tells me I probably won’t. I’ll keep the little red Royal Enfield.
Why?
Because I’m a member of the cult.
© 2025
Church of the Open Road Press
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