THE $139.00 LIGHT BULB

Sadly, no longer in the Triumph fold…

I am a huge supporter of small businesses and because many motorcycle dealerships are small businesses, I like to develop a relationship with my dealer and do most of my maintenance and merchandise trade with him or her.  I want them to be successful for two reasons.  Selfishly, I feel if I care for the small business, the small businessperson will care for me, and I believe that small businesses are the economic backbone of many communities both large and small.

Earlier this year, my Triumph dealership gave up or lost the Triumph franchise.  Too bad.  They are a good group of people to whom I happily took my BMW for service and my Moto Guzzi for consignment.  Slipping out of my motorcycle comfort zone or biases, I purchased a 2015 Triumph Thunderbird.  The huge cruiser came with compromises, but will always rank as the most comfortable motorcycle I’ve ever owned.  Long distances melted beneath her white-walled wheels and passers-by’s eyes popped whenever I pulled into a rest stop or a 7-11.

My new “local” dealer – who I will not identify here – was nearly fifty freeway miles distant but windy alternative routes made that distance a gift rather than a burden.

Two months ago, I scheduled a tire change delivering the T-Bird at the appointed 10:00 hour and was told by the service writer that they’d “get right on it; shouldn’t be more than and hour-and-a-half.” 

I had brought along a book and after perusing the inventory of new machines sat down for a few minutes of literacy.  By noon, the beast was not yet on the rack. 

“Next in line,” I was told. 

Ultimately, the keys were handed back to me at 4:30.  Arriving home, I discovered the Avon on the rear was a full 10 p.s.i. underinflated. 

Probably just an oversight. 

I’ll give ‘em a heads up next time I’m in.

Three weeks ago, on a Wednesday, “Big Blue” went in for her 12,000-mile service including a valve inspection. 

“Plan on leaving her overnight.” 

“No problem.  I’ll be back next Tuesday.” 

“She’ll be ready.”  I ticked off three items needing attention beyond the normal service: Belt adjustment, check engine light, and “Oh, and could you pop a new bulb in the right side running light?”

“Sure.”

The following Wednesday, I boarded the newly operating commuter train with helmet in hand to pick up the ‘Bird. 

“Ummm.  She’s just going up on the rack right now,” says the advisor.  “Probably be six hours or so.  Are you waiting?” 

The train ride back was pleasant.  I helped a little fifth-grade girl with her math homework. 

Shame on me for not calling the dealership prior to heading down there.

Thursday at noon, the call came, “Your bike is ready.  Are you going to pick it up today?” 

“Probably tomorrow.  What did you find out about the check engine light?” 

“Oh (pause) It’s on the lift right now.  We’re checking it out and will get back to you.”

Unseasonable heat – like 106 degrees – prompted me to postpone picking up “Big Blue” until after the temperatures broke.  That’d turned out to be the following Tuesday. I called to make sure it’d be okay for them to hold on to it.  Graciously, they said yes.  In the mean time they spotted a coolant leak for which I authorized repair, suggesting it might be a warranty issue.

The bike was, indeed ready on Tuesday.  I hiked over from the depot to be presented with a bill for all repairs including $4.78 for the running light bulb and $139.00 to “diagnose the problem.” 

Wouldn’t one stick a new light bulb in there and if it didn’t pop immediately, there’s nothing to diagnose?

Also was told that the check engine light was due to improper routing of wires to the sensor in the exhaust system. “We rerouted them and reprogrammed.” 

“Good.  Would that be covered under warranty?” 

“I asked around and no, I have to charge you for that because the part wasn’t bad.” 

.75 hour shop time. 

The coolant leak turned out to be a clamp that failed: not covered.  Another $139.00.

Ultimately, the bill came to nearly $1500.00 for a 12,000-mile service.  “But I have a bit of good news.  It seems when Triumph sent us the 12,000-mile kit, they included the wrong air filter.  You can bring it back down and we’ll install it, or I can credit your bill.” 

Doesn’t make Triumph USA, Ltd sound very good to me, the customer.

“Credit please.”  Then I mentioned: “When I picked the bike up a few weeks ago after you put new tires on, I got home and the rear was at 34 when it should be 44.  Can you double check pressures for me?”  

“Sure, no problem.  I’ll meet you out back.”

Out back: 

Me: “What did you find out about the belt alignment.”

Service advisor: “I’ll check with the mechanic. (Leaves momentarily.) He adjusted it.”

Me: “Good.  It wasn’t listed on the bill.”

Me: “What was the source of the check engine light?”

[See above.]

Me:  “And thanks for double checking the tire pressure.”

SA:  “Sure.  The rear was a bit low.  I got it up to 40.  That should be good enough.”

I bit my tongue.

Handshakes.

Firing her up three things became obvious.  Tiniest one first:

·      One: It takes thirty seconds to reset the clock after a battery disconnect.  When I, the customer, have to reset the clock it sends a message about the degree of customer care I just paid a large-and-a-half for.

·      Two: After a battery disconnect, the gauges reset – this I discovered – and the fuel gauge read “full” when I know I was planning on filling ‘er up after I left the dealership.  I decided to physically check the gas tank only to find…

·      Three: the filler cap was loose, not snapped into place; now, back to…

·      Two: As the machine idled, the gauge reset itself indicating:

a)    I did, indeed, need to fill ‘er up – no problem – and

b)   Since the battery had been reconnected, the bike had not turned on or ridden as most service departments will do after completing a job or the gauge would have already rest itself and ‘found home.’  Perhaps.

Businesses fail for any of a number of reasons.  Here are some:

1)   Evolution:  What you make may no longer be needed:  Buggy whips.  Coal.

2)   Lousy Product:  Edsel Ford.  Yugo.  Pet Rocks.

3)   Economic Downturns:  Recessions hit and products deemed not essential (for some, this means motorcycles) are not purchased at a sustainable level.

4)    Competition:  Somebody does what you do, only better or cheaper: Let’s see how Tesla’s Model C stacks up against Chevy’s Bolt.

5)   Poor Customer Service:  Something that is under the direct control of the business owner. 

A successful owner will likely set standards for his employees relative to their interactions with customers and the quality of service the customer receives.  Employees are counseled and coached to ensure that their work matches a standard that will invite the confidence of the customer.  Screw-ups – things that naturally happen as apart of the human condition – are seen as teaching moments; opportunities to invest in the employee and thereby grow the business. 

At the outset of this post, I stated that I am a supporter of small business – and I am with this small business, even though I feel as if my recent experiences ranked well below satisfactory.  I’m sure others have fared much better with this shop.  A copy of this diatribe is being sent to the shop in the hopes that they’ll do better for the next guy.

I am disappointed in Triumph USA Ltd.  I am disappointed with my new local Triumph shop.  This storied brand deserves better. 

It has been three days since “Big Blue” returned from her 12,000-mile service.  She ran like a top coming home and also ran delightfully well to the local Yamaha dealer where she was traded yesterday.

© 2017

Church of the Open Road Press

LONG-TERM ON A 2015 TRIUMPH THUNDERBIRD

Your 12,500-mile report…

… and some thoughts from the great

California to Vancouver Island Loop of 2017

Let’s start with this disclaimer: No matter what you might read here, I like this bike.  Sometimes I go out in the garage late at night and just sit on it.

Why?  Mainly because it’s so danged comfortable.  It’s like a La-Z-Boy on two wheels.  In motion, the footboards allow me to move my legs a bit every now and then.  And the windshield somehow deflects cold blasts away from the handgrips so that only on the coldest of rides do I wish it had heated units.  With acres of chrome and a deep paint job highlighted with hand painted coach lines, the thing is a real looker, inviting conversations the lengths of which are inversely proportional to how badly you have to hit the restroom.

The engine pulls like a proverbial tractor and lopes along at 75-plus miles per hour, gladly doing it all day, as it did on my recent trip to Wyoming.  Two up presents no problem.  Neither does ten days on the road.

I changed out tires a click or two before turning 10,000 miles.  In the process, the mechanic alerted me to some excess wear on the drive belt.  I’d never owned a motorcycle with a drive belt and understood that, like shafts, they are largely maintenance – and trouble – free.  Apparently, I understood wrong.  At the tire change, more than 1/8^th of an inch of belt had prematurely worn away.  The mechanic said he aligned the pulleys carefully with the tire change but, “We’ll need to keep an eye on it.”  Seems to me that, coming out of the box, the drive pulleys on the T-bird should have been aligned with laser-like precision.  Now with another 2500-plus miles on the rig, the belt seems to be worn even more.  I’m thinking this is a manufacturer’s defect, but I suspect I’ll be informed it is a wear item and repair or replacement will be on my nickel.

Just prior to that tire change, the check engine light came on.  I quickly pulled over and, referencing the owner’s manual, found that the big bird is programmed to let you “limp home” should the light illuminate.  I added a dollop of oil and the light went out, but as the mechanic was testing the machine after putting on new rubber, the light it up again.  The diagnosis suggested something associated with an exhaust valve in the tail pipe (?) but was inconclusive prompting, “It may just be a bad sensor.  We’ll check on it when you come in for service.”  And they reprogrammed it to go out.  Half way through my 2500-mile loop up to British Columbia, the light came on again.  No Triumph dealers in sight and, since it was on a Saturday, even if there were one, it would likely be Tuesday before it could be addressed.  I gambled on the “bad sensor” theory and motored on.  Disconcerting, it is, to be enjoying the cruise on BC 99, I-5 and various side roads with that amber light glaring at you from the dash.  I didn’t try a dollop of oil as the dipstick indicated full.

Another little grievance is the fact that in low to moderate powered sweeping or tighter turns, a wobble develops in the front wheel.  I mentioned this at tire time and was told that new rubber might remedy things.  With a little research, I further found that tightening the rear shock might help alleviate the problem.  Still I experienced the jostle.  This I will mention at service time.

Also, one of the running (or fog) lights failed.  Not sure why.  Ghosts of Lucas Electrics?

Again, I like this bike.  As with all things complex and mechanical, things will happen.  I am disappointed in some of the minor things (and perhaps major things – like that wobble) have cropped up on this fairly new machine.  I’m also a bit bent out of shape that the relationship between my local dealer and Triumph has ended forcing me to go an additional 60 miles for warranty service.

I’ve owned four BMWs and liked them all pretty well, though their cost of maintenance seemed to escalate as they became more ‘sophisticated.’  They were nicely engineered and well suited for the riding I like to do, perhaps a little more so than the T-bird.  But I knew I would be making some compromises in an effort to try something different.  And you can’t argue with that comfortable saddle!

Still, as I completed my loop from Vancouver Island, I got a nagging twinge or, perhaps, a longing for the lighter feel and the legs-under-you seating position of my old GS.  As luck would have it, driving into Port Angeles, WA, I followed and then conversed with a fellow rider who’d swapped out his expensive-to-maintain GS for a Yamaha Super Tenere.  “9500 miles,” he said, “and nothing’s ever gone wrong.”  (His ‘nothing’s gone wrong’ comment seems to be borne out by the comments of many others on the Tenere owner’s page.)

The Super T has been on my wish-list back burner since I first laid eyes on one at the Grand Canyon in 2010 or 11.  From time to time, I’ve checked in with the motorcycling press on the Yamaha. Good reviews.  Substantially competent at most of what the Beemer does at a much-reduced ticket for admission.  Plus, service intervals and costs are reportedly much less than I’ve paid for either my BMWs or the current Triumph.

A Yamaha dealer outside of Salem, Oregon had several on the lot and very inviting out-the-door pricing.  The young sales lady with whom I spoke, insisted that, since I had my gear on, I should take one for a ride.

As I said earlier, I like the T-bird.  Not sure how much longer I’ll have her, however.

Damn test rides, anyway.

© 2017

Church of the Open Road Press

INTERESTING FIND! THE CALIFORNIA TRAIL INTERPRETIVE CENTER

On the road to the Jackson Hole Writers Conference

Whisking across Nevada’s Interstate 80 in 100-degree temperatures makes me wonder how those who did this 150 years ago survived.  In eight minutes on the big Triumph Thunderbird, I can cover what those stalwarts accomplished in one day, if they were lucky. In my teaching days, I shared with students stories of immigrant privations, of losing livestock, jettisoning furnishings, busted axles and death. One could chart their course across Nevada by simply following the detritus and graves of those who came before, I told ‘em.  I don’t think all of my kids believed me.

In eastern Nevada, ancient eroded ranges are divided by large playas filled with eons of sediment in this land of little rain.  Still, if there were a cluster of cottonwoods somewhere this side of the horizon, there’d likely be water.  The western end of the trail traverses bone-dry ridges with scant vegetation and little protection from a burning summer sun.  I’m not sure how anyone ever found a watering hole in these parts.  In fact, there’s a storied forty-five-plus mile stretch where, indeed, there is no water available.

The fur company trappers, mountain men who preceded the gold seekers by a generation, had plotted many a route and many alternatives to cross the arid basin and range.  One, the Hastings Cut-off rejoins the California Trail at the site of this interpretive installation.  Hastings devised an alternate route that he claimed would bypass Nevada’s Ruby Mountains, but it added nearly 100 miles to the trek.  Those hundred miles proved pivotal to the fate of the party captained by James F. Reed and George Donner in 1846.

I stopped in at the recently constructed California Trail Interpretive Center, just west of Elko.  Located at the junction of the California trail and the infamous Hastings Cut-off, the displays verify that what I told my students was true and that crossing the high, parched desert on the big Triumph, no matter how uncomfortable, was vastly superior to the choices available to our pioneering ancestors. 

The exhibit hall beautifully renders the cavalcade of history from Paiute days to the present.  Of great interest, of course, are the dioramas depicting the hardships of the easterners seeking fortune in the west.  Outside, however, the displays really touch on what these folks endured. 

A circle of wagons speaks to community and interdependence.  Survival, indeed, depended upon it.

Random collections including, perhaps a chair, a steamer trunk, cast iron cookery and some shreds of cloth illustrate choices and loss.

A discarded fiddle sings to the unifying nature of music, how people in the worst of circumstances find solace in performance – in art. 

The distant Ruby Mountains rise through a mid-summer haze.

I ride away consumed by the struggles of those who attempted this crossing while the soundtrack for the next hundred miles is a baleful tune scratched out on a tired old violin.

o0o

More about the California Trail Interpretive Center: http://www.californiatrailcenter.org/

© 2017

Church of the Open Road Press

BIG BLUE CONQUERS THE DOLDRUMS

Return to a favorite ride along California’s Coast Highway

I recall my dad turning 65.  He looked really old.  His right leg, shriveled from a mining accident forty years before caused a markedly deteriorating limp.  He received hearing aides but arthritis in his hands prevented him from changing the batteries.  His active pastime changed from backpacking into nameless places to reading books – over and over – and sipping highballs starting at about 3:00.

I think about my recently repaired hand and my recently repaired knee – neither ever to be “good as new” – and I realize that turning 65 is passing a marker – a marker that causes one to reflect.  Sometimes that reflection looks clearly like a country – western song:

My knee’s near shot and my hand can’t grip

I’m getting’ hard of hearing and there’s pain inside my hip

Politics is blood sport and kids no longer spell

Seems as if my world and self are goin’ all to hell

The big Triumph had only been on local, hour-long trips for well over half a year.  I am beginning to think my touring days are coming to an end.  A trip is scheduled to Wyoming later in the month and then to British Columbia later on, and I’m wondering if I should just plan on taking the Subaru.  The Thunderbird is a fabulous bike for what it’s made for, but is it made for what I want to do any longer?  What about switching to a Triumph Scrambler – lighter, more maneuverable, or a Ducati – lighter, more maneuverable, and with mojo, or a Yamaha or Honda each of which have local dealers?  What about a Vespa?

The late spring weather is glorious.  A damp cloth massaged the bugs away from the windscreen and wiped the accumulated dust from the bike’s fenders and tank.   By 9:30, after downing a gulp of orange juice, I am on the road to I didn’t know where.

Climbing the freeway ramp onto northbound 101, the Thunderbird thrusts me forward with an exhaust note whispering, “Why haven’t we done this recently?”  I feel a smile creep across my face. 

US 101 north of Sonoma County is a mixture of freeway and two-lane coursing over hills and through valleys blocked with vineyards.  On the freeway portion, about three weeks ago, a new Chevy Impala was sliced in half in a head on collision – the spot now speckled with orange marking paint over the oil and coolant stains.  The Chevy driver walked away.  I check my speed and find myself obsessing about the weird collection of skid marks that decorate the blacktop on this length of 101.  How'd they get there?  Who survived?  Who didn't?

I pass though Hopland, eschewing a favored breakfast joint, motor north past Ukiah and the right turn that would take me inland into Lake County.  There’s a new by-pass around Willits I’ve wanted to try and it cuts about twelve minutes off the journey north.  I wonder what’s happening to down town.  CA 162 splits off toward Round Valley and Covelo to the east, but the T-bird would be no match for the rugged forest road that crosses the Coast Range.  Nice rest stop just north of the junction.  At Laytonville, I head west on Branscomb Road.  It’ll be twenty-eight winding miles out to the ocean.  Recalling that folks on the west end of this route often take their half right out of the middle of the road, I cling toward the shoulder only to be proven right on curves twice in a span of about 20 seconds.  The descent to the Pacific is a corkscrew shrouded in trees that settles onto a willow thicketed stream course.  No surprise view of the ocean.  Just a stop sign at CA 1.

The Coast Highway is tucked behind a dune until it crosses a river and then rises to one of those points where “Wow!” is simply involuntary.  Thirty miles of coastline bluffs and breakers stretch before me under an azure sky supporting just enough cirrus cloud to provide depth.  I stop at the nearest vista.

There, a couple from Minnesota gush about their drive and how we have so much in common (referring to my Governor Brown and their Senator Al Franken) and then ask if I’d snap a photo.  Of course I will.  And he insists on taking mine.

I’ve ridden this road many times on all manner of motorcycles.  On a good day, the tablelands and cliffs are spectacular and the green hills sweeping eastward seem Eden-like.  The road twists and drops into creeks and river valleys, forested and cool; then back along the pasturelands where, indeed, the cows must be contented.  Motorcyclists – even the Harley guys – wave, the experience being so grand.

A fine little winery called Pacific Star sits overlooking the sea, their Dad’s Daily Red being a worthwhile catch.  McKerricher State Park offers trails and tide pools.  There’s a nice excursion train ride out of Fort Bragg and a great coastal hike recently opened behind the old mill site.  Noyo Harbor is what San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf used to be about 60 years ago.  The state maintains the lighthouse at Caspar.  Mendocino Village invites one to stroll its wooden walkways, explore its galleries and enjoy the ocean’s symphonic sound track.  Little River, Albion – where the highway crosses on a historic wooden trestle – Elk and several other waypoints dot the route.  There’s another lighthouse and a classic motorcycle shop in Point Arena as well as a nice chowder house out on the pier a mile west of town.  

State parks, vista points, old barns, farmsteads and contemporary architectural wonders speak to the changing history of the land.  Gualala offers a nice grocery store and access to the mouth of a river of the same name.  Sea Ranch is a ten-mile stretch of privately held properties, many of which are vacation rentals.  Access is restricted to paying customers in all but a few places.  Sea Ranch’s development prompted outcries about the fencing off of the coast leading to the establishment of the California Coastal Commission.  Just moments south is Stewart’s Point with a fine country store and gas.  It rests in the heart of a coastal protection zone established by the previous administration…

…but I don’t stop at any of these.  I’ve visited them before (even renting at Sea Ranch) and I don’t want to get off.  I just want to ride. 

Stewart’s Point Skaggs Springs Road heads east from this point.  An arduous 40 miles on will come to Healdsburg on US 101.  The first four miles are single lane pavement, well worn and feeling the effects of a winter in which many coastal roads succumbed to nature’s greater powers.  Climb over one ridge then another, descend into a river valley and cross on a 1911 vintage bridge that some numbskull thought would be improved by decorating it with gang sign in red spray paint.  But the redwoods here, unsung and unprotected, provide a cathedral-like canopy.  I stop for a photo and a passer-by pauses to make sure I haven’t broken down.  “You are riding a Triumph, after all,” he says.

Within ten or twelve crow-fly miles the temperature has risen from a coastal 62 to an inland 85.  The forests have faded into the rearview mirror and rolling hills awash in knee high dry grasses remind me that it’s summer.  Cresting and falling and turning, the pavement has improved and soon I pass the Warm Springs Dam on Dry Creek.  I’ve entered my home stompin’ grounds.  I’d hiked the lake just a week ago.

At 4:00 I arrive home having stopped only for gas once, for “rest” twice and for photos three times.  That glass of orange juice saw me through the day, the bulk of which had been in the saddle.  Rolling the T-bird into the garage, I reflect on the people and the scenery and the road and the day.  I assess my hand, my knee and my hip and realize I am feeling no discomfort.

Time to pack for Wyoming.

© 2017

Church of the Open Road Press

An Open Letter to Triumph Motorcycle LTD re: Dealer Closures

10 April 2017

Mr. John Bloor, CEO

Triumph Motorcycles Ltd

Normandy Way

Hinkley, Leicestershire LE 10 3BZ

United Kingdom

Greetings Mr. Bloor:

I am writing to express my disappointment in the loss of the Triumph franchise by my local dealer Santa Rosa (California) BMW Triumph.  My interactions with the dealership have always been positive and professional whether when servicing my BMW, consigning my Moto Guzzi or purchasing my Triumph Thunderbird.

Rumor on the street suggests that the loss of Santa Rosa’s franchise – and that of other small dealers – is related to a requirement on the part of Triumph that dealers maintain a greater minimum floor space, locate closer to other motorcycle or automobile dealerships and operate their businesses six days per week.

While such requirements make sense and may prove beneficial for Triumph sales in larger markets, smaller dealers are confronted with simple economic question: meet the requirements and lose profit margin or kill the brand for the area.  Sadly, it appears that many dealerships are opting for the latter.   As a result, enthusiasts such as myself, must scramble to find authorized service or to simply drool over a new Bobber or Bonne 1200.

The owners of Triumph motorcycles with whom I have come into contact are passionate about their machines, the brand and the legacy.  Corporate decisions that limit small dealers’ access to Triumph cause me to wonder whether the passion riders hold for their Tigers and Bonnevilles is shared reciprocally by Triumph Ltd. toward their riding customers.

I look forward to the day when the Triumph brand returns to California’s North Bay region.

Sincerely,

churchoftheopenroad.com

FOILED WILDFLOWER RIDE: A CONSPIRACY OF THE ROAD GODS

…skip one good riding day

and you’ll always be one behind…

Somebody’d reported yesterday that there were acres upon acres of California poppies carpeting the rolling hills along 128 in the Yorkville Highlands.  Perhaps there’d be lupine, too.  Either was good enough to set me on a renewed Saturday ritual.   

Back the Subaru out of the garage, center the big Triumph, give it a thorough spring cleaning – it could sure use a bath…

Polish this beauty until I can see my reflection in the paint and the chrome blinds innocent passers-by.  Then set off to check out those flowers.  At least that was the plan.

After backing the Sube onto the street, I automatically, and needlessly hit the down button for the garage door opener and entered the house without hearing the BANG!  Ten minutes later, armed with a bucket of warm water and a bundle of soft towels, I hit that button again.  Buzz.  Nothing. 

And again.  Buzz.  Nothing.

I pulled the release to manually raise the thing.  Wouldn’t budge more than a couple of inches.  And when I let go, the door slammed back to the floor.  My fifteen or more minutes of trouble-shooting and WD-40 brought me no closer to a solution.  Bang!  Buzz.  Bang!  Bang!

The cacophony drew interest from my bread-baking wife indoors.  In seconds, she pointed at something above the garage door and asked:  “Does that spring always look like that?”

It’s been a longer-than-usual non-riding season.  The weather gods had dumped record amounts of rain on northern California this winter and the medical gods put me on the DL for six to eight weeks recovering from some knee work.  So when the weather turned very, very nice, and word was afoot that the hills were carpeted in wildflower burst, I didn’t need any additional encouragement.

California’s State Route 128 heads west from US 101 at Cloverdale twists over a rugged volcanic ridge and into Mendocino County (where the pavement is much better) before dropping into the Yorkville wine-growing region.  There, wide sweeping turns invite an easy throttle and thanksgiving for spring riding days such as these.  Boonville is a nice waypoint for coffee.  And there there’ll be that carpet of poppies.  Plus if I choose to motor further, an hour will see me touring the spectacular California coast along highway 1.  I’m due!

Well, maybe not.  The T-bird is trapped.

According to the video, changing the tension springs on a garage door is about a one-hour task.  It requires few tools and just a bit of safety precaution.  Parts are less than $150.00 and the company is now custom-making the springs to the specification I ordered.  With enhanced shipping, the kit should be here by the end of the week.

Just as those poppies and lupine begin to fade.

o0o

Notes:  The tension spring video:

https://www.garagedoornation.com/pages/garage-spring-replacement-guide

…and it turns out, the garage door can be opened manually – it takes two people to do this – but the busted tension spring will not allow the thing to stay open without the application of some remedial physics.  I’m leaving things status quo until the parts arrive.  Makes for a better story.

But, I did manage a wildflower fix by hopping on the old Peugeot - better therapy for the knee, anyway - checking out offerings in our small downtown and it’s hinterlands.  Thus, these:

Showy loco – perhaps

Red bud

Desert star – maybe, maybe not.

Something yellow

Vinca – beautiful, but invasive: not native to the west

Lupine

California poppy

© 2017

Church of the Open Road Press

EMPLOYING THE TRIUMPH THUNDERBIRD AS A TOOL FOR KNEE REHABILITATION

A St. Patrick’s Day therapy session

In the forty days and forty nights since they worked on my debrided right knee, Northern California had experienced rainfall that would cause Noah pause.  Because I couldn’t heft the big Triumph, the fact that the weather was marginal for riding didn’t cause similar pause for me.

But then, the weather turned nice.  Highs reaching the 70s.  Skies purely blue or only dotted with fluffy, white clouds.  Sonoma County’s network of curving roads cresting verdant rises, dry and ice free.  The California poppies would be blooming.  And the doc said I should “spend time on a bike” to rebuild strength in my knee.

In the garage, then, I straddled the Triumph and pushed the starter button.  If the thing fired up – it had been six weeks since last I’d ridden it – I’d give some thought into taking a short spin to test out my repaired joint.  That “some thought” took about a second and a half.

Dang!  The ‘Bird looked good when I pushed it out to the street.

I headed south on Dutcher Creek Road toward the Dry Creek Valley, Lake Sonoma and beyond, stopping many times for photos, as, I figure, getting on and off the cruiser would be good therapy for my knee.

The paper reported that just last week, the growers in the Dry Creek area were enjoying bud break.  In the parlance of viticulture, the term “bud break” has nothing to do with half time during the Super Bowl.  No, it means that the growth cycle has been renewed and we sure as hell hope there won’t be a late season hard freeze.

Dry Creek is dammed at the west end of the valley.  Lake Sonoma provides irrigation and domestic water as well as miles of hiking trails and a little used 14-mile dead end called Rockpile Road, a route that crosses the reservoir on a massive bridge.

Rockpile Road threads the ridge that separates the two arms of Lake Sonoma, passing through the Army Corps of Engineers administered recreation area and into a viticulture area identified as – surprise – Rockpile.

The road is little used – it is gated about twenty minutes in – so traffic is generally limited to the ranchers and farmers who work out that way.  

The pavement is grand with sweeping curves and sections that arc over one summit, then the next, reminding me a bit of Montana’s Beartooth Pass, only more temperate, less traffic, and with better wine locally available.

But, with ample warning, it ends.

Abruptly.

I pedal the Big Blue backwards on the pavement, arranging for myself enough space to hoist the thing around.  This is when I discover that one knee works and the other knee works not so well.

Using the guardrail to flex and relax said knee, I view the green hills – St. Patrick’s Day green hills – that lie beyond the pavement’s end.  Credited to Luther Burbank is the statement, "I firmly believe, from what I have seen, that this is the chosen spot of all this earth as far as Nature is concerned."  

Today’s ride out and back on Rockpile Road supports his contention.

It’s been an hour and a half on and off the Thunderbird and the bum knee feels not so bum.  I’m torn between making a longer day of it, risking fatigue, and just heading back to the barn.

What could I do to enhance this already glorious day?  Then, at US 101 and Lytton Springs Road, a solution presents itself.

Tacos al pastor and a beverage perched on the seat of the bike. Just like lunch on a real road trip.  What could be better?

A Modelo Especial sounded particularly good; if only I’d not been on the bike.

Catching the freeway north, I settle in for a ten-minute blast toward home. I’d been out of the saddle too long, but the big Triumph remains as comfortable and forgiving as I’d remembered it.  I was glad for today’s glorious weather and thankful that the Biblical rains we received happened while I was under in-house confinement orders. 

o0o

Note:  Upon returning home, I reviewed notes from the doc who worked over my knee and discovered that when he said “bike,” he meant:

not:

o0o

Today’s Route:  Exit US 101 at South Cloverdale Blvd, head west.  At the first intersection (landmark Starbucks, Sinclair Gas, liquor store, abandoned antique store across S Cloverdale) turn left heading away from town.  Somewhere along in here, the road becomes Dutcher Creek. Pass the Fritz Winery two miles southwest (stop in if you have a moment) and continue for a total of about six to Dry Creek Road.  Right on Dry Creek to the end of the valley.  At the spillway, turn left – your only choice – on Stewart’s Point Skaggs Springs passing Lake Sonoma the Visitor Center (stop in if you have a moment).  Continue up the hill about three miles.  Stewart’s Point Skaggs Springs will exit left, but you’ll want to continue on what is now Rockpile Road, over the big bridge and west for another dozen miles or so.  Return?  Retrace.  Consider following Dry Creek Road six or seven miles east into Healdsburg where you can hang out at the town’s square like the area glitterati.

© 2017

Church of the Open Road Press