THE LOANER

 Think peanut M&Ms

 Well, nuts!  A manufacturing defect in the gas tank of my wonderful Moto Guzzi V85tt has placed the machine in sick bay for “four to six weeks” while a replacement is shipped from Piaggio’s historic plant in Mandello del Lario, Italy.  Sounds as if it’ll be coming on a slow boat.  

     My local Guzzi dealer, Sonoma EuroCycle had suffered from a rather checkered past of poor customer orientation, but recently experienced a near 100% overhaul in staff.  The new folks seem to be enthusiasts rather than place holders. That’s good.  Because Guzzi needs good dealers and the Guzzi product line is not the only brand Euro carries.  Flagship for them is BMW.  Elegant and pricy, but with a reputation for solid engineering, Beemers may be the marque that draws most folks to the shop.  But they also carry the Aprilia line of racing hot rod bikes; the gorgeous new line of Moto Morini, an Italian brand now built in the Far East; Zero, a tantalizing electric lineup; Vespa, (think ‘Roman Holiday’) another Piaggio brand just acquired when the long time Santa Rosa dealer retired; and a make called Royal Enfield.  

Royal Enfield is among the oldest continuously manufactured motorcycle brands on the planet.  Established in 1901 in England, long about the mid-fifties the manufacturing moved to India where, for decades, they produced small displacement scoots for the low-wage populous. In the recent past, with the vision of some Brits, the company has upped its game.  Intent on becoming a world player in the mid-displacement motorcycle market, they began producing bikes that mimicked their WWII line-up, improving build quality, and creating a reputation for durability. Not long ago, Enfields were re-introduced to the USA market.  Starting with 350 cc singles and a dual sport with a bit larger mill, they recently added some 650 twins quite reminiscent of the glory days of British motorcycles (think Triumph, BSA, Norton). The new Royal Enfield 650s are lookers.

     The 411cc Himalayan is not. Built to tackle India’s least forgiving roads, the thing is about as attractive as a stray cat that’s been on the losing end of a few dark alley encounters.  That said, five years ago, I rented a ‘Himi’ and drove it over the vaunted Bear Tooth Pass between Wyoming and Montana ~ the back door to Yellowstone.  I recalled it not being fast but full of character.  In forty years of riding, the experience that day climbing the twisting curves to summit among legions of Harleys and Gold Wings and pocket rockets still ranks as one of the best ever.  What a hoot! They had nuttin’ on me!  

That adventure is recounted here:  

 https://thechurchoftheopenroad.blogspot.com/2019/08/summiting-beartooth-pass-on-royal.html  

 

Backed into the curb in front of the dealership was a lineup of perhaps two dozen new and slightly used motorbikes. In that lineup were a couple of year-old but brand new Royal Enfield Himalayans.  As I waited for the diagnosis on mine, I spotted the red and black machine. I even sat on it. Big mistake! Immediately, I was again crossing Bear Tooth Pass on that perfect day.

     “Anything else?” the service guy asked as he tapped me on the shoulder and delivered the bad news about my gas tank.

     “Yeah,” I said, “How much is this one?”

     Immediately the sales guy appeared.

     The Himi came out the door for much less than its retail price of a year ago.  Riding home on it, I thought about those times when you’re at the checkout counter at the grocery store and, at the last minute, you pick up a bag of peanut M&Ms.  This was sorta like that.

 

I must admit that I misspelled “Loaner” at the top of this piece. Motorcycle dealers don’t offer long term loaners to their customer.  Sheesh! Everybody knows that! It should read “Loner” for the guy who will soon be sleeping in the garage with his two motorcycles once the Guzzi is back.  

     That said, I can’t wait to find several local examples of Bear Tooth Pass here in my Sonoma County – Northern California back yard.

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

BAITED BY A BUZZARD

 Sorry, No Photo of the Incident…

 

A good day’s ride on a motorcycle should include at least one breath-taking moment or heart stopping view.  (Note to reader: According to my doctor, I’m ‘spozed to be consistently wearing a heart monitor for thirty days, but I knew I’d be off the grid for a spell.)

 

 

The road from State Route 20 to Leesville and Lodoga is rarely taken by civilized man.  Civilized ranchers, yes, but few others.  The route traces the eastern edge of the Coast Range in Colusa County, winding through expansive pastures and past elegant aging barns from a century or so back. (Jerry Brown, I’m told, now lives out this way.)  I’d last taken this crusty road in a nearly new 1991 Jeep Wrangler so how many years ago might that have been?

       

Straddling the Moto Guzzi, I motored and bounced up a steep section of roadway – more pothole than pavement – twisting up the north end of a lovely rangeland valley.  Around each turn the view became more magnificent in either direction.  To the south, that springtime green valley on the cusp of turning golden.  To the north and west, the still white-encrusted peaks of the Snow Mountain wilderness area. Narrow, with blind turn after blind turn, there was no place to stop for a “Shot of the Day.” 

         

I reached the summit where the road turned from what they called pavement to a graded dirt and gravel affair that was much easier to negotiate on the motorcycle.  I relaxed my grip on the grips just a bit.  Just as the prior miles were upward twisting, these corkscrewed downward.  To my right, the hillside was steep, covered with tight thickets of chamise and scrub oak.  To the left, the hill was equally precipitous.  I’m sure there was a seasonal creek at the bottom, but it was too far down to see, if I’d hazarded to take a glance off the road.

         

Rounding a bend, something stirred to my right.  Something big.  I gently touched the brakes when that something burst out of the underbrush.  A buzzard.  A turkey vulture.  Perhaps the grandpappy of all turkey vultures, undoubtedly annoyed about my interruption of his lunch.  Liftoff for this winged behemoth would prove to be a struggle. The massive scavenger slipped below the level of my windshield.  Wings pumping, it couldn’t seem to rise above the brush on either side.  His route was the same as mine.  Dirt road conditions as they were, my speed was cautious. The buzzard’s?  Slower.  

I was gaining on him.  From about three feet behind I could see the gray undersides of his wings, count the feathers that looked like disjointed fingers at the end of those wings and I could even make out the needle-like talons on his red-stockinged feet.  I may have followed him for fifty yards on that pebbly route at one point thinking, if I just goose the throttle a bit, I bet I can probably grab that fella and… But ‘goosing the throttle’ would likely send me off the edge, plummeting into the abyss to come a cropper where my cell phone wouldn’t connect. And there I would lie, squashed beneath the Guzzi, waiting to become the big guy’s next meal.  

Of this, I think the vulture was aware.

 

In perhaps fifteen seconds, the big bird rose out of reach, tipped his wings slightly to catch the updraft out over the canyon and drifted away.  

 

 

I’m not sure what that heart monitor might have recorded, but it woulda been something interesting to explain to the doc.

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press