FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF MY GUZZI V7 SPECIAL

  

Downsizing and Upgrading – all at the same time

 

As a kid, I was enamored with sports cars: Triumphs, Alfas, MGs.  Particularly MGs: First the TD, then the A, then the B.  I could never afford any of ‘em, but a Midget bearing a price tag of 1200 bucks once was sitting on a used car lot, and I snaked my lanky 6’4” body into it.  It nearly took the Jaws of Life to pry me out.  The same could be said of motorcycles. With a 34” inseam, there have been many two-wheelers that were physically too small for me.  Not that I didn’t own a few: my Honda Trail 90s, a CL360, and my first BMW, an R65.  Mostly, I’ve found myself on tall or long scoots: comfortable because of their spaciousness, but in some cases, a bit ponderous to maneuver.  Each was sold or traded to make room for the new best thing.  The latest victim of such a transition would be my Yamaha Super Tenere, a machine that could do absolutely everything I wanted and one that will surely be added to the lengthening list of “ones I let get away.”

 

Since owning my first Moto Guzzi – and ’07 Breva – I’ve simply been smitten by the marque.  The mojo.  The character of the V-twin.  The Italian flair.  The company history that tells us every Guzzi ever built over the past 100 years has come out of the same factory on the shores of Lake Como.  So along comes the 2021 model year V7 Special with a bit more juice and a Centenario applique, and I’m hooked.  Fearful that the small architecture would remind me of squeezing into that ’67 Midget, a generous test ride abated those concerns.  Now I’ve had the Special for a month.  And the thing has proven delightful.

 

 As I aged – note I didn’t say ‘matured’ – I’ve found myself less oriented toward multi-day adventures and more eager for an hour or two exploring local roads.  I’ve also found that wielding a 700-pound motorcycle out of the garage or around a parking lot had become less inviting than hopping in the Subaru for an errand to the store.  Damn! I don’t like getting old!

 

But the V7 weighs in at 492 and the principal question has evolved from “Do I want to ride this today?” to “Can I please ride this today?”  And I find myself wanting to get on the thing every day.  Thus far, the only drawback has been that a 20-minute ride to clear my head ends up lasting an hour-and-a-half.  I'd get lost somewhere...

 

 A couple of minor deficits:  Sonoma County, California may be one of the wealthier counties in the state.  (Don’t ask me how we ended up here.)  Our area boasts rolling vineyards, towering redwoods, ocean bluffs and winding roads that connect all of ‘em.  It is a paradise for those who enjoy motoring on two wheels.  A minor annoyance might be that the condition of our roads is sometimes wanting.  Better pavement exists in nearby Marin, Mendocino, and Napa.  (But we make better wine.)  That said, while the Yamaha and the BMWs I’ve owned have done an admirable job of soaking up the worst of the bumps, the V7 Special prompts me to be a bit more cognizant of those road warts.  It’s a small adjustment.

 

Similarly, and I knew this when I paid the admission ticket, the cockpit of the V7 is a bit tight for a guy of my size.  Neighbors say I dwarf the thing.  But the seat is spacious and comfy.  A recent loop out to the coast could have been truncated at many points along the route, but I easily kept going, covering 170 lovely miles, never feeling uncomfortable in the luxurious brown leather saddle.  I did find myself dismounting rather frequently, but these breaks were brought about by the coastal scenery, not any form of monkey-butt.  And when the final leg took 75 minutes, they were 75 minutes of bliss. I de-saddled thinking that by strapping a duffel bag on the back, an over-nighter might still be in the cards.

 

 Among the strengths:  This thing is light (to me) and handles like a feather gently dancing on the wind.  A twist of the throttle powers over hills and the whole package – frame, saddle, suspension – seems eager to dive onto the next set of curves.  The tires nicely grip the tarmac no matter the tarmac condition and I’ve yet to overtax the brakes.  (I make it a practice to never overtax the brakes.)  All of my previous mounts have had a degree of wind protection.  This bike is naked.  It took perhaps fifteen minutes on the rural road between the showroom and home for me to appreciate the non-wind-protectedness of things.  Brought to mind pleasant memories of the Honda CL 360 upon which I commuted through the foothills from Paradise CA to Durham to my first teaching gig.  Simple and refreshing.

 

Also, a factor an old guy such as myself appreciates is the simplicity of the few electronic gizmos.  Upon delivery, my Guzzi’s Owner’s Manual somehow got left at the shop.  Scrolling through the mode functions, I was easily able to set the clock and reset the trip meter.  With manual in hand, it proved simple to access and adjust the traction control which may be superfluous on a mild-mannered ride such as this one.

 

In blue, the thing is a visual stunner.  (It’s visually stunning in gray, also.) On each of the three longer rides, I’ve been hailed by someone in the parking lot and regaled with either admiration or a story.  Aurally, it also sings.  The tenor exhaust note is unobtrusive in the neighborhood, but more than once, someone walking by has asked me to fire it up so they can hear it.  

 

 

Looking at 70, I’m not sure what my last motorcycle will be.  Up until a couple of months ago, I thought it would be the Yamaha.  For now, a future on the V7 Special seems just about perfect.  And if it turns out to be the last bike I own, I’m thinking I can say I rode to that far horizon on something strikingly pretty, something loaded with character and history and mojo.  Sort of like that MG-TD, A or B (or Alfa Spyder) that never made it into my fold.

 

© 2021

Church of the Open Road Press

 

 

Well, It’s Happened Again

I return to the fold

 

About every four or five years I get the itch.  I’m astride a perfectly good motorcycle – in this case, a flawless Yamaha Super Tenere (which I’d named Enrico) – when someone pushes out the next gotta-have – in this case, Moto Guzzi’s revised 2021 V-7.  Classic lines.  Throw-back style.  A bit more power than last year.  Italian mojo.  (Enrico has a whole lot going for him, but mojo isn’t very high on the list.)  Driving by our semi-local Guzzi dealer – making sure not to have gear with me so I can’t test ride, because I know what always happens when I test ride something – a beautiful gray V-7 Special sits gleaming in the western sun.  “If only it was blue,” I think.

 

Six weeks later, I swing by again, hoping beyond hope that there won’t be a blue one there, but alas…

 

…now one sits in my garage.  (Regarding Enrico, the shop in Windsor made me an offer I could not refuse.)

 

 

I’d purchased a lightly used 2007 B1100 Breva several years back, rode it for well over 10,000 miles and from the day I traded it in, regretted not having a Guzzi in the garage.

 

 

My taste in motorcycles has ebbed and flowed over the past 50 years.  A BMW RT was a great mile-muncher and my KLR introduced me to a family of black bears crossing a fire road.  The GSA was a wonderful all-purpose machine that carried me 600+ miles a day on several occasions.  And Enrico ran like a clock.  But the Breva had a degree of character none of the others seemed to offer.  And as I found myself less comfortable throwing my leg over the high seat of the Yamaha and more at home in the passenger seat of the Subaru for touring with my wife, something a bit smaller seemed in order. 

 

The test ride of the V-7 transported me back to my first real bike – an ’82 BMW R65 – simple, light, agile, and straight forward without a lot of things that you could adjust but that I never adjusted. 

 

 

Today, three days into ownership, I decided to shake things out on a familiar route.

 

The first photo-op came in the Dry Creek Valley where harvest was just beginning.

 

Next, I paused at a picturesque red barn that has been the backdrop for first photos of former bikes.

 

 

In my twisted world, a new motorbike isn’t truly christened until it has carried me on sweeping curves through the redwoods along the Russian River to the Cape Fear Café in Duncan’s Mills.  And that’s where it’s happened again happened again.

 

I’m setting the Special (now named Mariolanza for the way the exhaust note sings) on the side stand when a large man taking big striding steps crosses the parking lot.  Uh-oh, I’m thinking, What’d I do to this guy?  Then he calls me ‘brother.’  He tells me of his newly purchased V-85 TT Touring and the good trade-in he received on his Griso, all of which was interesting, because it always is.  I say always because I remember parking that Breva and, nine times out of ten, being approached by some someone who either once owned a Guzzi, now owns a Guzzi, or would like to own a Guzzi.  They always have a story to tell.  The conversation always starts with “Beautiful bike, man!”

 

 

And my V7 Special is.  Fluid.  Lovely.  Italian.  And lovely.  ‘Mariolanza’ reminds me so many grand yesteryears and begs me to ride so many tomorrows.  It’s a pleasure to be back in the community.

 

Notes:  Purchased the V-7 at Sonoma Euro-Cycle in Windsor, Ca and felt I was treated professionally, fairly and with good doses of humor and motorcycle tales: https://rideeurocycle.com

 

Stop by the Cape Fear Café for breakfast or lunch.  I believe their home fries may be the sole reason God created the potato: http://www.capefearcafe.net

 

© 2021

Church of the Open Road Press

 

RETURN TO MENDOCINO AND A VISIT TO FERN CANYON

 ...seeking respite from, well, everything...

 

In an effort to escape the end-of-the-world smoke of our inland valley berg, we loaded up the all-electric Chevy Bolt with two night’s worth of duds and headed over to Mendocino.

The quaint New England-esque village is day-trip-able, but by staying a couple of nights, more could be explored and more in depth.

Speaking of depths, long on the bucket list was a hike into the depths of Van Damme State Park’s Fern Canyon.

A lovely trail traces the Little River (we never ran across the Little River Band, however) through a verdant, lush understory of ferns and fall color...

...ducking under fallen redwoods and firs, cleared in some places to maintain the trail, but left to decay and return nature to nature.

Oddities appear throughout these sheltered environs.  Here, an alien spaceship appears to have collided with a Douglas fir.

 Two-and-a-half miles in, the trail forks...

...offering a loop (with quite an elevation gain) into the Pygmy Forest...

 

...a region where a fifty-year-old tree might rise to five or six feet on a three-quarter inch trunk.  Something about the particulars of this biome.  The air up here is much warmer (and much smokier) than down in Fern Canyon.

 

Completing the loop, our trail passes through a century-old burn zone that displays the resiliency of the area sequoia.

 

Along the way, it looks as if we may have discovered the source of a particularly nasty signature circumstance of the year 2020.  Who knew it might be plant based?

 

Details delight as we complete the 8 ½ mile sojourn along the Little River through this lush and often over-looked Eden.

 

 

Upon the recommendation of friends, we holed-up at the lovely Headlands Inn... 

 

...walking distance from Mendocino’s Main Street and the glorious bluffs beyond.

 

A sea stack offers refuge for pelicans, cormorants and gulls.

 

Evening finds us enjoying fine northern Italian fare in the garden at Luna Trattoria – great wine list, thoughtful, efficient service, and a delightful Italian owner with a deep baritone voice – where I snap a picture of their rustic shed (because I like rustic sheds).

 

We followed that with a late stroll down Mendocino’s deserted Main Street.

 

COVID-19 has taken a toll on the tourist industry and, this early October evening, I’m afraid it shows even here.

 

 

Like old sheds and old trucks, we can’t pass up an old lighthouse.  Point Cabrillo’s is only three miles up Highway 1.

 

It’s a half-mile walk from the parking area to the former lightkeeper’s residence.  Derelict roses edge the way...

 

...and a decrepit fence separates this space from that space – I suppose.

 

The Pacific is particularly active this morning, engaged in its eons-old quest to erode North America into the sea...

 

...and the Point Cabrillo Light Station has witnessed over a century of it.  (I’m reminded that I need to check my history book(s) and determine if Juan made it this far north as he explored California for Spain back in the day.)

 

 

Some hikes are a bust.  In our efforts to stave off re-entry into unhealthy air, we used a published guide to direct us to a little-used trail head just south of the Navarro River.  Once the route of the old state highway, the guide read: “Overgrown in spots...”

 

No kidding.  After plunging through about two hundred yards of nettles, tangled vinca, ivy, poison oak and downed power lines, we determined that discretion was the better part of valor and headed home.

 

o0o

 

Notes:

 

Was it mentioned earlier that I dig old trucks?  Here’s one that could stand to be dug out...

 

The Headlands Inn offers great views, warm ambiance and breakfasts that simply can’t be matched. We will return.  Check ‘em out:  https://www.headlandsinn.com

 

And check out Luna Trattoria while you’re at it:  https://www.lunatrattoria.com

 

(c) 2020

Church of the Open Road Press

 

BUILDING THE MODERN CRICKET STOOL

…I take a stab at making furniture…

Growing up, I recall that we had a little cricket stool in the house.  It was nothing like this…

It was constructed of maple and finished to look like all of the other wood furnishings Mom and Dad (well, probably Mom) had picked out.  Sixty-five years ago, the little sitter was just my size.  I recall, many, many times, tipping it over and pushing it around the braided rug until Mom caught me.

I found myself thinking of that little stool when I ended up with two scraps of Central American Parota, left over when craftsmen finished a new mantel for our rebuilt fireplace.  “You want me to save the excess?” the craftsman asked.  “Sure,” I said, but I didn’t know for what.

After the mantel was installed, the two scraps of exotic sat taking up space on the workbench.

One piece was about three inches thick and a little more than an odd-shaped foot square.  The other was 3 x 3 x about 10, with a nice array of grain and a pleasant little curve to it.

Perhaps if I sanded them down a bit, I’d get inspired.

In my forty years of owning a Makita belt sander, I’d never mastered its use. The helpful hardware man down at Ace offered a brain-dead simple tip and I was off to the races.

I learned what a dowel-screw or a screw-dowel was.  I purchased one.  Now I had 65 cents invested in this – for lack of a better descriptor – wood sculpture.  Now it had better work out!

Twisting the post-like piece into place, it became clear that, with two other legs I could have me a milking stool – or better yet – a cricket stool!

I applied a first coat of teak oil – because that’s what I had on the shelf – and watched the grain pop into strata of dizzying earth tones.

Getting three legs to be just so for this project was going to be a challenge, so I looked up the outfit in Portland that fabricated some picnic table legs for me a while back.  Their website offered exactly what I needed.  

Four weeks and a hundred and twenty-four bucks out of pocket, the UPS man delivered ‘em yesterday.

In the meantime, I’d added a second soaking of teak oil.

I didn’t want to use the galvanized hardware provided, so I high tailed it down to Ace and bought five bucks worth of black machine screws and washers.  After all, this was to be fine furnishing. Right?

Assembly would be easy.  (I used my magic Phillips screwdriver.  Note how it stands up on its own. Magic!)

The finished product turned out rather nicely standing on its own two (or three, depending on how you count them) feet.

It weighs about thirty-five pounds, however – much more than that old maple cricket stool of yore.  It’ll take a brutish two-year-old to push this thing around the house.

I took one final shot of the project – in use – but only for illustrative purposes so the reader could get an accurate perspective on size.

Again, strictly for illustrative purposes.

o0o

Notes:  Petaluma, CA boasts a great business called Heritage Salvage.  One could spend a good long time just perusing their collection of hand-hewn oak timbers from 140-year-old Amish barns, or derelict redwood staves from the old water tank that served Tahoe City.  And slabs not only from redwood trees but from a root-rotted stump of a tree planted by Mariano Vallejo nearly two centuries ago.  They custom mill, cut and finish the piece you can’t live without and don’t seem to mind folks like me wandering through…. https://heritagesalvage.com

Symmetry Hardware in Portland, Oregon fabricates and finishes steel legs.  I’ve used their services for a couple of my projects.  A small business that will consult with you and does excellent work, it feels really good to use this source rather than a big-box store.  Plus, I got exactly what I needed for this little project.  Check ‘em out: https://steeltablelegs.com

© 2020

Church of the Open Road Press