FIRST, THEY MAKE YOU PAY TO PARK, which is really okay because the parking fees support really fine restroom facilities in the Chamber of Commerce/Amtrak Depot. However, one can either pay in coin or with credit card. Lacking pocket change I inserted my Visa to discover I’ll be tagged for a two-hour minimum at a buck an hour. The good news is that I got credit until noon even though I slipped the card in at 9:40. Very liberal meter, I’m thinking in a very liberal town.
So I hiked across the street to the bakery and find one of those white oval shaped stickers in the window of the door. You know, the ones often seen on cars and SUVs with black lettering that brags of the owner’s travel exploits saying “LT” for Lake Tahoe, or “JH” for Jackson Hole – and you feel like an idiot for sneaking a peek at the small print because you’re not hip enough to know what the initials stand for. This one had “NRA” on it and I was just about to settle in for a cup of Joe and a cinnamon roll, when my curiosity got the better of me. In this berg, NRA must mean something hip. It can’t be that NRA. Well I looked. I was wrong.
THE OTHER DAY, I received a letter from Wayne LaPierre telling me that forces were afoot trying to restrict my second amendment right to bear an arm and they were comprised of the Hollywood elites (who have spent the last eighty years glorifying the use of firearms, Wayn-oh), the liberals in Congress and the current administration. Coincidentally, that same day, five folks standing in their driveway in Del Paso Heights after the recent Lakers victory were cut down in a hail of bullets from a passing car. Two died. One still may. No additional number of guns in that or many other situations would have reduced the mayhem. Quite the opposite.
The waitress may have had a “What the hell?” moment as I left without ordering. An ethical thing for me to do would have been to stop by the owner/manager and say:
“I will respect to my dying breath your right to hold a point of view and your courage for putting it out there for all to see and, in some cases, like this one, risking some small loss of business because of it. Good for you, sister! However, because individual gun ownership is constitutionally reserved only for those members of a well-regulated militia, and because of the NRA’s wanton disregard for this and their constant fear-mongering, I shall be seeking my cinnamon roll elsewhere.”
But I didn’t man-up and say this. I just marched on out.
DOWN THE SIDEWALK I strolled, finding coffee and pastry just a few doors away. Eight bucks later, after having what must have been yesterday’s brew and what appeared to be a grocery store variety Entenmanns’s bear claw (bad) smothered in butter (good!), I headed back for the bike a little lighter of pocket than seemed reasonable.
Two hours remained on my two-hour parking pass. A livin’-the-dream twenty-something pulled up in an older Toyota Highlander. A well-worn river kayak strapped to the roof. He looked like he could use some free parking this day.
“Dude,” he said, as I handed the pass his way, “that’s very kind of you.”
“Hope you’re not in the market for a pastry this morning,” I replied, hoping to alert him to the seriousness of the current circumstance.
His quizzical look was not lost on me as I mounted the motorcycle and drove off.
© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
SEARCHING FOR SIMPSON CAMP - A VISIT WITH ELLIE SIMPSON
“There’s history all over these hills – some of it people know, some of it they don’t.” He didn’t move. “I wonder about that.”
“About what?”
“About history, when it dies.” He leaned back into the seat but regarded me. “Kind of like the tree that falls in the forest when nobody’s around? I mean, if nobody remembers history, did it still happen?”
ELLIE SIMPSON IS 94. She stands about four feet eight inches and carries a step stool in case she needs it so she can climb into my pickup. And she does. With my mother, we are on our way to lunch at a favorite spot in Magalia. “Left at the first intersection past the stoplight,” Ellie says. And she’s correct. “I always order a cup of chili because they don’t make chili where I live. Too many old people there. Most don’t like spicy food like I do.” The melted cheddar forms rubbery tendons like harp strings that stretch from the spoon to the cup. One snaps free and slaps against her faded, plaid blouse. “This is embarrassing,” she says.
“Good thing it isn’t a first date.”
ELLIE AND ZIBE SIMPSON moved from our neighborhood in 1978 to a mobile home in Paradise Pines: one at the end of a cul-de-sac with a view of Sawmill Peak. In 2003, the set up became too much for the octogenarians to care for so they relocated to a senior complex – a nice apartment with views from two windows of the forested hillsides. Always the hillsides. In 2004, Zibe died.
“Oh, I wish I hadn’t thrown out the camping pictures,” she says. “I didn’t think anyone would ever care to see them.”
We had finished lunch and returned to the apartment. From a tiny closet, Ellie retrieved two small photo albums and a shoebox filled halfway with envelopes of photographs. The oldest of the albums stretched back to her childhood days in Canada. Beautiful crisp black and whites of the farmhouse in which she was raised by grandparents after her mother died in the pandemic of 1918. Each picture or pair of pictures was fastened perfectly to the black page and each was labeled in white cursive. I wondered if white ink pens might still be available. The cavalcade of pictures ranged from her toddlerhood through Zibe’s courting of her, included pictures of their only son, Eric and one shot of Jovanna the boxer. The last few photos were in color – faded color – of the new place in Paradise Pines. The volume spanned our annual trips to Simpson Camp, in the remote reaches of the Coast Ranges, but the album held no pictures.
The smaller book was exclusively of Eric. And the random pictures, those unfiled and in envelopes, were just that: random.
Ellie had lost a son and a husband over the course of her life. At least one of those events was out of presupposed order. Still, her effervescence made me ignore how bland the chili had been. She would caution me that she couldn’t remember things like she used to and then provide precise details about how something looked, how a spring morning felt high in the mountains just east of Mendocino Pass, and how she swelled when someone’s car would inch down the road to the old sheep camp. “Because that car was always you and your family.” The detail prompted me to think that Zibe and Ellie chose not to share this locale with others. I felt special all over again.
IN THE 60S, when our families visited Simpson Camp, tales of how the old sheep camp ran were ancient history to my twelve-year-old way of thinking. Summering before the war seemed pleasant in a manner I couldn’t get my mind around. Given that I was born well after the war, this whole bucolic life just as well could have been three centuries before, rather than just three decades.
Now we are in the 10s. Fifty years later for me, and I want to find the little spot before history of it dies. “It is actually now considered an historic archaeological site that is protected by the forest service,” writes the District Ranger in response to my query. “ That is not to say you can’t visit there, it is just that it is more important to preserve the surroundings.” Then she adds, “Township 22N, range 9W, somewhere west of Smith Camp. Check section 17.”
I’LL DO THAT. I have a new copy of the Mendocino Pass Quad. 7.5 minute.
I’ll plan to arrive mid-afternoon so I can enjoy Ellie’s delight as she sees me driving down the bumpy road into camp. What I will likely find will be a few rusted sixteen-penny nails hammered into the fir trees. Perhaps a couple of aged-to-black pieces of rough-hewn dimension lumber still fastened to stumps or trunks. Maybe there’ll be a campfire ring, or at least a scatter of rounded stones, sooted up on one side. There won’t be a place to sit, unless I bring something. And the Simpson Camp sign will be gone.
I’ll stay until dusk, gather those stones, build a little fire and listen again to Zibe Simpson’s voice tell stories of running the herd up Grindstone Canyon from the Black Butte area ranch west of Orland and how they used Model Ts to do it. And as his words fade with the light, I’ll hear again the whisper-soft pleaing of the lambs in the high mountain glade.
“YOU KNOW, they were done running sheep into that high country long before I ever met Zibe.” She looks at Mom and then to me with eyes still as bright as tomorrow’s dawn. “I’ll take a look for those other albums and if I find them, I’ll get them to your mother and she can mail ‘em to you.”
The apartment is small. There are no other closets or crannies.
“Thanks,” I say.
© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press
“About what?”
“About history, when it dies.” He leaned back into the seat but regarded me. “Kind of like the tree that falls in the forest when nobody’s around? I mean, if nobody remembers history, did it still happen?”
Craig Johnson in “The Dark Horse” pg 130-31
ELLIE SIMPSON IS 94. She stands about four feet eight inches and carries a step stool in case she needs it so she can climb into my pickup. And she does. With my mother, we are on our way to lunch at a favorite spot in Magalia. “Left at the first intersection past the stoplight,” Ellie says. And she’s correct. “I always order a cup of chili because they don’t make chili where I live. Too many old people there. Most don’t like spicy food like I do.” The melted cheddar forms rubbery tendons like harp strings that stretch from the spoon to the cup. One snaps free and slaps against her faded, plaid blouse. “This is embarrassing,” she says.
“Good thing it isn’t a first date.”
ELLIE AND ZIBE SIMPSON moved from our neighborhood in 1978 to a mobile home in Paradise Pines: one at the end of a cul-de-sac with a view of Sawmill Peak. In 2003, the set up became too much for the octogenarians to care for so they relocated to a senior complex – a nice apartment with views from two windows of the forested hillsides. Always the hillsides. In 2004, Zibe died.
“Oh, I wish I hadn’t thrown out the camping pictures,” she says. “I didn’t think anyone would ever care to see them.”
We had finished lunch and returned to the apartment. From a tiny closet, Ellie retrieved two small photo albums and a shoebox filled halfway with envelopes of photographs. The oldest of the albums stretched back to her childhood days in Canada. Beautiful crisp black and whites of the farmhouse in which she was raised by grandparents after her mother died in the pandemic of 1918. Each picture or pair of pictures was fastened perfectly to the black page and each was labeled in white cursive. I wondered if white ink pens might still be available. The cavalcade of pictures ranged from her toddlerhood through Zibe’s courting of her, included pictures of their only son, Eric and one shot of Jovanna the boxer. The last few photos were in color – faded color – of the new place in Paradise Pines. The volume spanned our annual trips to Simpson Camp, in the remote reaches of the Coast Ranges, but the album held no pictures.
The smaller book was exclusively of Eric. And the random pictures, those unfiled and in envelopes, were just that: random.
Ellie had lost a son and a husband over the course of her life. At least one of those events was out of presupposed order. Still, her effervescence made me ignore how bland the chili had been. She would caution me that she couldn’t remember things like she used to and then provide precise details about how something looked, how a spring morning felt high in the mountains just east of Mendocino Pass, and how she swelled when someone’s car would inch down the road to the old sheep camp. “Because that car was always you and your family.” The detail prompted me to think that Zibe and Ellie chose not to share this locale with others. I felt special all over again.
IN THE 60S, when our families visited Simpson Camp, tales of how the old sheep camp ran were ancient history to my twelve-year-old way of thinking. Summering before the war seemed pleasant in a manner I couldn’t get my mind around. Given that I was born well after the war, this whole bucolic life just as well could have been three centuries before, rather than just three decades.
Now we are in the 10s. Fifty years later for me, and I want to find the little spot before history of it dies. “It is actually now considered an historic archaeological site that is protected by the forest service,” writes the District Ranger in response to my query. “ That is not to say you can’t visit there, it is just that it is more important to preserve the surroundings.” Then she adds, “Township 22N, range 9W, somewhere west of Smith Camp. Check section 17.”
I’LL DO THAT. I have a new copy of the Mendocino Pass Quad. 7.5 minute.
I’ll plan to arrive mid-afternoon so I can enjoy Ellie’s delight as she sees me driving down the bumpy road into camp. What I will likely find will be a few rusted sixteen-penny nails hammered into the fir trees. Perhaps a couple of aged-to-black pieces of rough-hewn dimension lumber still fastened to stumps or trunks. Maybe there’ll be a campfire ring, or at least a scatter of rounded stones, sooted up on one side. There won’t be a place to sit, unless I bring something. And the Simpson Camp sign will be gone.
I’ll stay until dusk, gather those stones, build a little fire and listen again to Zibe Simpson’s voice tell stories of running the herd up Grindstone Canyon from the Black Butte area ranch west of Orland and how they used Model Ts to do it. And as his words fade with the light, I’ll hear again the whisper-soft pleaing of the lambs in the high mountain glade.
“YOU KNOW, they were done running sheep into that high country long before I ever met Zibe.” She looks at Mom and then to me with eyes still as bright as tomorrow’s dawn. “I’ll take a look for those other albums and if I find them, I’ll get them to your mother and she can mail ‘em to you.”
The apartment is small. There are no other closets or crannies.
“Thanks,” I say.
© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press
Monday, June 7, 2010
HAZARDS FOUND IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD - LOWELL HILL, NEVADA COUNTY
IT IS THE RARE CASE that I take a fellow rider with me while attending the Church of the Open Road. In solitude, I can hear the message, see the visions and worship more freely. On this day, however, I took neighbor Eric. Luckily.
The mission was to go to Grass Valley and retrieve three copies of a children’s book I’d ordered. The precursor-to-summer day called upon me to find a creative way to do that. Lowell Hill Road parallels the Bear River from below Lake Spaulding. I’d never taken it. That was good enough for me.
Exiting the pavement off highway 20 just below I-80, after 45 miles of freeway travel, it was clear that Lowell Hill was not a place frequented. While the surface was gravel for about 300 yards, it soon became a game of “Which Way Do We Go?” as dual tracks split hither and yon.
“We must be in the infamous Fugahwe Region of Nevada County,” Eric commented. I didn’t know he knew the area.
Conifer needles carpeted the dirt-only route. The mid-70s temperature had dried most of last week’s unseasonably late rain/snowfall. If the road rose or fell, there’d be no standing water. When our route bottomed out, in the lowest depressions, creamy brown puddles dared us to enter. I danced from one rut to the next avoiding these little hazards when they came about. But, at one point, it looked as if God had spilled His mocha into both tire tracks for a little section, and the only routes were through a puddle – pick one: left for Democrats, right for Republicans – or tracing the little ridge in between. I’m a middle-of-the-road kind of guy.
AN INTERESTING THING about the dual sport tires I’d selected for my prized and pristine GSA. Called “Tourances” by Mezeler (a division of Pirelli), they are engineered to handle the pavement quite well – where the bulk of one’s riding occurs – but also do an adequate job in gravel and dirt. They lack a chunky off-road, dirt bike tread. And they do not shed mud like those moto-whatever guys’ tires do. In fact, after a few feet in the soft gooey stuff, they become slicks. No tread. No traction. Just tragedy. I found this out as the front tire slid into the rut on the right while, simultaneously, the rear tire went left.
The BMW GS Adventure is engineered for a lot of things, but traveling sideways ain’t among ‘em. In one of those slow motion moments when you can see what is about to happen, but powerless to stop it, the road dissolved into the consistency of butter and the afternoon’s trip looked to become toast. First to slide into the muck was the right hand cylinder head, which on a Beemer, protrudes to the side of the machine. Next was the optional, Jesse “Odyssey” steel saddlebag. Indestructible, the ad had said. Keeping my foot on the peg, my right leg skittered across the surface of the puddle for the ten to twelve feet it took this whole parade to come to a halt. A light chocolate wave similar to one produced by a slalom water skier washed across the down side of my body. The cylinder head and the bag protected my fragile self from any injury.
Eric was off his KTM is seconds, checking my vitals. I was going to live. We righted the bike and took inventory. It was going to live as well, but the right side Jesse bag had sacrificed its ability to close in an effort to save my drumstick. I tied the “indestructible” closed with a bandana.
Cautiously we proceeded not more than a mile and a half. There, the surface became graded, nice-as-pie gravel. However, in that initial 2,000 yards west of my "ground zero," Eric later reported, the puddles at the side of the road looked as if they were taunting me. He was right. As I tiptoed by, I could feel the mud developing fingers that grabbed at my cuffs, shoelaces and the spokes of the big Beemer’s wheels. Magically, those evil fingers disappeared if I shot a glance at the rearview mirror. This is explained, I concluded, because, like all things evil, muddy puddles do not have a reflection.
TODAY’S MESSAGE FROM THE CHURCH was anything but abstract: When proceeding down a double track and both ruts are filled with slime, pick one. There has to be a bottom or the water wouldn’t be standing there. Go cautiously into it and gently accelerate out of it. This is the one time where being middle of the road is not an option. It is far more convenient to hose down the bike at home than to have to take it in to the neighborhood body shop for a couple of swift licks with a rubber hammer to reform the side case.
©2010
Church of the Open Road Press
The mission was to go to Grass Valley and retrieve three copies of a children’s book I’d ordered. The precursor-to-summer day called upon me to find a creative way to do that. Lowell Hill Road parallels the Bear River from below Lake Spaulding. I’d never taken it. That was good enough for me.
Exiting the pavement off highway 20 just below I-80, after 45 miles of freeway travel, it was clear that Lowell Hill was not a place frequented. While the surface was gravel for about 300 yards, it soon became a game of “Which Way Do We Go?” as dual tracks split hither and yon.
“We must be in the infamous Fugahwe Region of Nevada County,” Eric commented. I didn’t know he knew the area.
Conifer needles carpeted the dirt-only route. The mid-70s temperature had dried most of last week’s unseasonably late rain/snowfall. If the road rose or fell, there’d be no standing water. When our route bottomed out, in the lowest depressions, creamy brown puddles dared us to enter. I danced from one rut to the next avoiding these little hazards when they came about. But, at one point, it looked as if God had spilled His mocha into both tire tracks for a little section, and the only routes were through a puddle – pick one: left for Democrats, right for Republicans – or tracing the little ridge in between. I’m a middle-of-the-road kind of guy.
AN INTERESTING THING about the dual sport tires I’d selected for my prized and pristine GSA. Called “Tourances” by Mezeler (a division of Pirelli), they are engineered to handle the pavement quite well – where the bulk of one’s riding occurs – but also do an adequate job in gravel and dirt. They lack a chunky off-road, dirt bike tread. And they do not shed mud like those moto-whatever guys’ tires do. In fact, after a few feet in the soft gooey stuff, they become slicks. No tread. No traction. Just tragedy. I found this out as the front tire slid into the rut on the right while, simultaneously, the rear tire went left.
The BMW GS Adventure is engineered for a lot of things, but traveling sideways ain’t among ‘em. In one of those slow motion moments when you can see what is about to happen, but powerless to stop it, the road dissolved into the consistency of butter and the afternoon’s trip looked to become toast. First to slide into the muck was the right hand cylinder head, which on a Beemer, protrudes to the side of the machine. Next was the optional, Jesse “Odyssey” steel saddlebag. Indestructible, the ad had said. Keeping my foot on the peg, my right leg skittered across the surface of the puddle for the ten to twelve feet it took this whole parade to come to a halt. A light chocolate wave similar to one produced by a slalom water skier washed across the down side of my body. The cylinder head and the bag protected my fragile self from any injury.
Eric was off his KTM is seconds, checking my vitals. I was going to live. We righted the bike and took inventory. It was going to live as well, but the right side Jesse bag had sacrificed its ability to close in an effort to save my drumstick. I tied the “indestructible” closed with a bandana.
Cautiously we proceeded not more than a mile and a half. There, the surface became graded, nice-as-pie gravel. However, in that initial 2,000 yards west of my "ground zero," Eric later reported, the puddles at the side of the road looked as if they were taunting me. He was right. As I tiptoed by, I could feel the mud developing fingers that grabbed at my cuffs, shoelaces and the spokes of the big Beemer’s wheels. Magically, those evil fingers disappeared if I shot a glance at the rearview mirror. This is explained, I concluded, because, like all things evil, muddy puddles do not have a reflection.
TODAY’S MESSAGE FROM THE CHURCH was anything but abstract: When proceeding down a double track and both ruts are filled with slime, pick one. There has to be a bottom or the water wouldn’t be standing there. Go cautiously into it and gently accelerate out of it. This is the one time where being middle of the road is not an option. It is far more convenient to hose down the bike at home than to have to take it in to the neighborhood body shop for a couple of swift licks with a rubber hammer to reform the side case.
©2010
Church of the Open Road Press
Saturday, June 5, 2010
On Backtracking - The Trip Home from Green Island Lake
MORE THAN A HALF MY LIFETIME AGO, I hiked in to one of the hidden gems of the northern Sierra for a little camping and fishing. I’d never caught a fish before, but Green Island Lake was the sure thing neophytes dream about and true fisher-people laugh at. So with friends Randy and Patti and their faithful Collie–Shepherd mix Sheba (may she rest in peace), we hiked down the two-and-a-half miles to the lake from the parking area where I’d locked my ’71 Super Beetle. Prepared for at least two days, we set up camp a few paces from the marshy shore, and I pulled out my Fenwick rod and Quik reel. My dad – the Old Timer – would be joining us for the second night of this trip, so I needed to be careful not to harvest all the fish in this one afternoon.
Hours passed.
Fortunately, we had packed some frozen “Hobo Stew,” a concoction of ground beef, chunks of carrots, potatoes and onions seasoned with salt and pepper; wrapped in aluminum foil to be set in the coals of a campfire for baking. These, with a morsel each of a seven-inch rainbow trout (arguably the stupidest fish in the whole lake that day) would suffice for dinner. Rain began to fall at about dusk, smothering the clouds of mosquitoes but soaking my hastily erected pup tent.
The morrow dawned foggy and dank and we determined that if we broke camp early enough, we could save the Old Timer from hiking down to this miserable little spot.
With backpacks hoisted and secured, and following trusty Sheba, we trekked away from the lake and down the trail toward the car. We passed through glades knee high with lupine and paintbrush, across chattering brooks and beneath black-barked firs. And it was at least an hour and a half before we realized “down the trail” was not the direction we should have gone. Sheba was a trusty and loyal companion, but no scout.
We paused and cursed. The fog had melted. An azure canopy stretched above the towering firs.
“Return to camp?”
“Back track to the trail junction and head home?”
I hate so to undo what I’ve done. I didn’t want to hike back up the untold distance to find the junction.
I sat on a stump.
We’d have to make a decision before nightfall.
SOMEWHERE BACK IN TIME, I was writing the novel like the carefree neophyte novelist that I am. Following a trail known only to my imagination, I took a similar wrong turn. It was well after completing this my best – well, longest – work that something became clear: one or two of the major elements of the main characters didn’t fit. Their actions didn’t advance the story. In fact, their actions were so out-of-any-norm as to be contradictory. And the story flagged. Many of my prized lines and funny quips just didn’t belong. I knew it. I had let my imagination lead me down the wrong path at some unmarked trail junction.
Now I sit on a stump. It’s been three weeks.
I know what to do. I just need to muster the gumption to do it.
ABOUT 4:00 PM we arrived back at the parking area. There, parked next to my ’71 Volksie, was Dad’s yellow VW Type 181 “Thing.”
Days later, the Old Timer reported that the lake was beautiful, and no, he didn’t fish, but some other camper at the lake – because he’d exceeded the limit – gave him three fresh trout that Dad gutted and fried up that night in butter.
© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press
Hours passed.
Fortunately, we had packed some frozen “Hobo Stew,” a concoction of ground beef, chunks of carrots, potatoes and onions seasoned with salt and pepper; wrapped in aluminum foil to be set in the coals of a campfire for baking. These, with a morsel each of a seven-inch rainbow trout (arguably the stupidest fish in the whole lake that day) would suffice for dinner. Rain began to fall at about dusk, smothering the clouds of mosquitoes but soaking my hastily erected pup tent.
The morrow dawned foggy and dank and we determined that if we broke camp early enough, we could save the Old Timer from hiking down to this miserable little spot.
With backpacks hoisted and secured, and following trusty Sheba, we trekked away from the lake and down the trail toward the car. We passed through glades knee high with lupine and paintbrush, across chattering brooks and beneath black-barked firs. And it was at least an hour and a half before we realized “down the trail” was not the direction we should have gone. Sheba was a trusty and loyal companion, but no scout.
We paused and cursed. The fog had melted. An azure canopy stretched above the towering firs.
“Return to camp?”
“Back track to the trail junction and head home?”
I hate so to undo what I’ve done. I didn’t want to hike back up the untold distance to find the junction.
I sat on a stump.
We’d have to make a decision before nightfall.
SOMEWHERE BACK IN TIME, I was writing the novel like the carefree neophyte novelist that I am. Following a trail known only to my imagination, I took a similar wrong turn. It was well after completing this my best – well, longest – work that something became clear: one or two of the major elements of the main characters didn’t fit. Their actions didn’t advance the story. In fact, their actions were so out-of-any-norm as to be contradictory. And the story flagged. Many of my prized lines and funny quips just didn’t belong. I knew it. I had let my imagination lead me down the wrong path at some unmarked trail junction.
Now I sit on a stump. It’s been three weeks.
I know what to do. I just need to muster the gumption to do it.
ABOUT 4:00 PM we arrived back at the parking area. There, parked next to my ’71 Volksie, was Dad’s yellow VW Type 181 “Thing.”
Days later, the Old Timer reported that the lake was beautiful, and no, he didn’t fish, but some other camper at the lake – because he’d exceeded the limit – gave him three fresh trout that Dad gutted and fried up that night in butter.
© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press
Thursday, May 27, 2010
FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE – CLIMATE CHANGE IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD
IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and a winter storm advisory has been posted for the foothills twelve miles east of here. Snow level down to 3,000 feet. Carry chains. Outside, the sky approximates the underside of an antique pewter serving tray. Mottled tarnish. Edward the impulsive black lab mix pup, who regularly finds delight in nipping Jax the Dog’s aging rear ankles, instead lies by my side as I read a winter book atop the quilted bed. The terminally nervous Aussie, Jax the Dog, rests uncomfortably at the foot.
IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and I am thinking I should either activate the furnace against this unseasonable foul blast, or set a log in the fireplace and add some cozy to the environ. Maybe pour a dram of whiskey into a glass and watch the weather advance across the neighborhood and through my back yard. But that would mean disturbing one or both of the dogs. So I continue to read.
IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and from somewhere inside that leadened sky, a roll of thunder reports. Distant. Subtle. Soft. Edward leans closer to my body. He sighs. I look up from my text and realize his eyes are fully shut: his body in still, peaceful slumber next to 'Dad.' Jax the Dog shudders at this first distant report and with the second, springs off the bed seeking shelter where there’s none better to be had. Jax knows what will happen if she’s not on her guard. If she’s not on her guard that thunder will shatter a window and burst through. It will clutch her wriggling, helpless body and drag her to a hell where she will spend eternity protecting her weary old haunches from being nipped by a million or more impulsive little black puppies. It will be worse than a bath.
IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and I stop my reading, rise, move to the computer and compose this entry. Edward disappears. Jax the Dog follows me to my desk and squeezes into the footwell. The rank smell of her nervous panting rises from the floor, past the keyboard and into my nose. Suddenly, there’s a muffled deluge behind me, just through the double-glazed windows. The thunder again claps. Closer now. Louder. Jax the Dog presses my ankles and emits an involuntary whimper. I want to tell her, “It’s all right, Sweetness. All dogs go to heaven,” but her fear constricts my throat and I am silent. I understand, but she doesn’t – and Edward doesn’t care. My shepherd’s shepherd, I run my fingers through thick, soft fur and hope her panting will subside.
IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and normally, on a date as late as this, I’d fancy myself exploring some road or canyon or vista on the motorbike. But Jax the Dog needs me. And really, there is nothing better than being needed.
IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and as soon as I finish this sentence, I’m going to pour that dram of whiskey and watch this storm, all the while cuddling Jax the Dog.
© 2010
The Church of the Open Road Press
IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and I am thinking I should either activate the furnace against this unseasonable foul blast, or set a log in the fireplace and add some cozy to the environ. Maybe pour a dram of whiskey into a glass and watch the weather advance across the neighborhood and through my back yard. But that would mean disturbing one or both of the dogs. So I continue to read.
IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and from somewhere inside that leadened sky, a roll of thunder reports. Distant. Subtle. Soft. Edward leans closer to my body. He sighs. I look up from my text and realize his eyes are fully shut: his body in still, peaceful slumber next to 'Dad.' Jax the Dog shudders at this first distant report and with the second, springs off the bed seeking shelter where there’s none better to be had. Jax knows what will happen if she’s not on her guard. If she’s not on her guard that thunder will shatter a window and burst through. It will clutch her wriggling, helpless body and drag her to a hell where she will spend eternity protecting her weary old haunches from being nipped by a million or more impulsive little black puppies. It will be worse than a bath.
IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and I stop my reading, rise, move to the computer and compose this entry. Edward disappears. Jax the Dog follows me to my desk and squeezes into the footwell. The rank smell of her nervous panting rises from the floor, past the keyboard and into my nose. Suddenly, there’s a muffled deluge behind me, just through the double-glazed windows. The thunder again claps. Closer now. Louder. Jax the Dog presses my ankles and emits an involuntary whimper. I want to tell her, “It’s all right, Sweetness. All dogs go to heaven,” but her fear constricts my throat and I am silent. I understand, but she doesn’t – and Edward doesn’t care. My shepherd’s shepherd, I run my fingers through thick, soft fur and hope her panting will subside.
IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and normally, on a date as late as this, I’d fancy myself exploring some road or canyon or vista on the motorbike. But Jax the Dog needs me. And really, there is nothing better than being needed.
IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and as soon as I finish this sentence, I’m going to pour that dram of whiskey and watch this storm, all the while cuddling Jax the Dog.
© 2010
The Church of the Open Road Press
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
TUCKED IN AND COZY – TOURATECH WINDSCREEN SPOILER PRODUCT REVIEW
I HAVE A HANDICAP. I’m tall. Six foot four, to be exact. Not tall and good looking. Just tall. I bump my head on the rafter inside the attic anytime I go up there and I can’t get a Miata for my wife because I simply don’t fit.
Last summer I traded my KLR 650 and my 1150 RT for the bike that was made for us long-of-inseam riders: a BMW GS Adventure. As advertised, it is truly the best of both worlds. Great on the highway and more than adequate after the pavement ends.
Unfortunately, for most of us, getting beyond the pavement means traveling on asphalt or concrete for at least some distance. In my case, the pavement is Interstate 80, a main east-west route across middle America. In my region it is over-used by people who drive too fast. So riding the GSA at a pace equal to others means a 75-mile-per-hour scream of wind that is fatiguing to the body and deafening to the ear. Owing to the fact that I would be riding from the Sacramento area to Jackson, Wyoming in late June, the thought of two or three days of wind howl was something I needed to remedy.
I STUMBLED ACROSS the Touratech “Spoiler for Windscreen” while thumbing through their inch thick catalog. Pricy at about $125, I did like the concept of clamping it to the existing screen and removing it when unneeded, leaving no mark on the BMW Plexiglas.
Out of the box, this windscreen extension measures about 3¼ inches high by 12 inches wide. The brushed aluminum clamp measures about 3½ by 4½. At first blush, I was afraid the clamp would prove to be a line-of-sight distraction, but after centering the lightweight little unit atop the stock windshield and settling onto the seat, it was clear that I’d need to be three or four inches shorter for this to be an issue, and if I were that diminutive, I wouldn’t need this after-market accessory. The spoiler clamped in place without adjustment needed to the locking nuts. Lucky me.
Within minutes, I am on I-80 traveling at speed when I notice something weird. Weird in a good way. From below me I can actually hear the thrum of the big GS’s motor. Something I’d not experienced at 75 before this. But there was wind noise. I wasn’t sure whether or not to be disappointed, so I conducted a little experiment. I stood on the pegs. Ah Ha! There it was. That windblast. The roar. The element that, whenever I returned home, caused me not to hear my wife ask, “Well, how was the ride?” Using my internal “Dav-i-bel” meter, I’d estimate the spoiler decreases wind noise by at least 60 percent. I can hear myself think, reason and make safer driving decisions.
My 85 mile test loop allowed me 40 miles of freeway, about 35 miles of sweeping curves and ten miles of deep-forest twists and turns beneath trees still dripping from the morning’s unseasonable May shower. At speed, the stock windscreen stayed rock-solid. On the higher speed sweepers, there was no impact on the bike’s handling physics that I could discern. And at 50 mph, the last of that rainsquall swept over the top of my Shoei RF 1000 as if I were tucked into a cocoon.
The plastic on the spoiler is of lesser gauge than the stock windscreen. The edges are not finished with the same polished smoothness as BMW’s plastic. And the back side of the aluminum clamp is not attractive. But, then, neither is a GSA, until one looks at function. The GSA does everything well. It handles the noise associated with high-speed travel even better with the Touratech “Spoiler for Windscreen.” Which makes the spoiler quite beautiful, in my mind.
Touratech Windscreen Spoiler as the wind might see it. Note brushed aluminum clamp. Stylish!
Touratech Windscreen Spoiler as the rider sees it. Close up of clamp. Works well because it is engineered so very well. But not particularly pretty from the driver's seat. Bottom line? Easy to forget it is there and really simply enjoy a less buffeted ride.
© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press
Last summer I traded my KLR 650 and my 1150 RT for the bike that was made for us long-of-inseam riders: a BMW GS Adventure. As advertised, it is truly the best of both worlds. Great on the highway and more than adequate after the pavement ends.
Unfortunately, for most of us, getting beyond the pavement means traveling on asphalt or concrete for at least some distance. In my case, the pavement is Interstate 80, a main east-west route across middle America. In my region it is over-used by people who drive too fast. So riding the GSA at a pace equal to others means a 75-mile-per-hour scream of wind that is fatiguing to the body and deafening to the ear. Owing to the fact that I would be riding from the Sacramento area to Jackson, Wyoming in late June, the thought of two or three days of wind howl was something I needed to remedy.
I STUMBLED ACROSS the Touratech “Spoiler for Windscreen” while thumbing through their inch thick catalog. Pricy at about $125, I did like the concept of clamping it to the existing screen and removing it when unneeded, leaving no mark on the BMW Plexiglas.
Out of the box, this windscreen extension measures about 3¼ inches high by 12 inches wide. The brushed aluminum clamp measures about 3½ by 4½. At first blush, I was afraid the clamp would prove to be a line-of-sight distraction, but after centering the lightweight little unit atop the stock windshield and settling onto the seat, it was clear that I’d need to be three or four inches shorter for this to be an issue, and if I were that diminutive, I wouldn’t need this after-market accessory. The spoiler clamped in place without adjustment needed to the locking nuts. Lucky me.
Within minutes, I am on I-80 traveling at speed when I notice something weird. Weird in a good way. From below me I can actually hear the thrum of the big GS’s motor. Something I’d not experienced at 75 before this. But there was wind noise. I wasn’t sure whether or not to be disappointed, so I conducted a little experiment. I stood on the pegs. Ah Ha! There it was. That windblast. The roar. The element that, whenever I returned home, caused me not to hear my wife ask, “Well, how was the ride?” Using my internal “Dav-i-bel” meter, I’d estimate the spoiler decreases wind noise by at least 60 percent. I can hear myself think, reason and make safer driving decisions.
My 85 mile test loop allowed me 40 miles of freeway, about 35 miles of sweeping curves and ten miles of deep-forest twists and turns beneath trees still dripping from the morning’s unseasonable May shower. At speed, the stock windscreen stayed rock-solid. On the higher speed sweepers, there was no impact on the bike’s handling physics that I could discern. And at 50 mph, the last of that rainsquall swept over the top of my Shoei RF 1000 as if I were tucked into a cocoon.
The plastic on the spoiler is of lesser gauge than the stock windscreen. The edges are not finished with the same polished smoothness as BMW’s plastic. And the back side of the aluminum clamp is not attractive. But, then, neither is a GSA, until one looks at function. The GSA does everything well. It handles the noise associated with high-speed travel even better with the Touratech “Spoiler for Windscreen.” Which makes the spoiler quite beautiful, in my mind.
Touratech Windscreen Spoiler as the wind might see it. Note brushed aluminum clamp. Stylish!
Touratech Windscreen Spoiler as the rider sees it. Close up of clamp. Works well because it is engineered so very well. But not particularly pretty from the driver's seat. Bottom line? Easy to forget it is there and really simply enjoy a less buffeted ride.
© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press
Thursday, May 20, 2010
ELIZABETH GILBERT on GENIUS
ELIZABETH GILBERT speaks about genius. Genius, she says, is not embodied in a person who does something nonpareil. It is not a gift that some have and others do not. It does not exclude.
Genius partners with the artist/worker. Each day, both should show up, but some days, one does not.
After a day of non-productivity – a day of staring at the ream of paper, blank canvas or unmilled stack of wood – one can look heavenward and curse, “I showed up today? Where were you?”
Successful workers – successful artists – show up every day. And on good days, genius joins them.
© 2009
Church of the Open Road Press
Genius partners with the artist/worker. Each day, both should show up, but some days, one does not.
After a day of non-productivity – a day of staring at the ream of paper, blank canvas or unmilled stack of wood – one can look heavenward and curse, “I showed up today? Where were you?”
Successful workers – successful artists – show up every day. And on good days, genius joins them.
© 2009
Church of the Open Road Press
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
SEARCHING FOR SIMPSON CAMP - OFF MENDOCINO “FH 7”
IN THE LATE SIXTIES, back when I was in high school, every Memorial Day Weekend, we’d journey to a place in the Coast Ranges called Simpson Camp. Used as a high country sheep camp some thirty or forty years before, we found this place because Zibe Simpson, a neighbor across the creek and long-time hiking buddy of my dad, was of the Simpsons of Simpson Camp.
The drive to the old sheep summer pasture was a grueling three-and-a-half hours across the floor of the Sacramento Valley, into the Coast Ranges at about Willows or Orland and up a twisty and torturous Grindstone Canyon through Alder Springs and Plaskett Meadows.
“Follow the signs to Covelo, but stop before you get to the pass,” were Zibe’s directions. “I’ll hang a bandana on a tree at the spur.”
The rock-strewn, windy road was not a place to be placed in the back seat of the ‘63 Ford Ranchwagon, but being the little guy in the household, my calling dibs on the front seat – even the middle of the front seat – had no pull. More than once, family paid a price for me sitting in back as it took a month to air my vomit out of the seams, creases and breathable pores of the vinyl upholstery.
JUST THIS SIDE OF MENDOCINO PASS, Simpson Camp was a place no one really knew about but Zibe and his wife Ellie, their kid, Eric, Jovanna their boxer dog, and us. Around a campfire Zibe would tell us stories of running sheep up the glade, herding them with Model T Fords that had to be driven in reverse up toward the steep summits because, in those days, fuel traveled from the tank to the engine using only gravity. No pumps. When the grades got too steep, the gasoline wouldn’t drain into the fuel line. “The damn things’d die and start coasting down backwards. I’ll tell you what! Helluva circumstance.” I have a picture in my mind.
I also have a picture of Jovanna, lazing in the mid-day sun curled amidst a clump of skunk cabbage as if God had provided this dog bed and this sun just for her. We had a slide somewhere.
We also had a slide of the stand of oaks, naked in the alpenglow just after sunset. The oaks, dad said, looked like a Greek chorus. Brother and I’d agree although, at the time, we had no idea what a Greek chorus was.
We had pictures of the campsite, cooking on the derelict cast iron stove that was left from the sheep-camp days, and of the cluster of cabins at Smith Camp, nearby, where each little house had its own intact iron stove – for a time. Last time we visited, the stoves had been “salvaged.”
SIMPSON CAMP can no longer be located on the Mendocino National Forest Map. I contacted the ranger who shared that the site is of archeological value and by removing the signs and taking it off the map, the Forest Service could be better assured that the artifacts there would be left alone. Terrific idea. I am grateful.
I told her of my frequent visits to the site and let her know that Ellie Simpson is still living and that she may have both pictures and stories to share. I’d try to arrange something. In exchange, I received very general directions to the site.
TODAY, I AM GOING THROUGH RACKS OF SLIDES – some racks from our family and some from the Simpsons. It turns out that when Zibe died five or six years ago, Ellie, whose vision was in decline, threw out all the family photographs and slides. Son Eric was dead, also, so there seemed no reason to hang on to flickers of those family times. She gave the empty trays to my mother who filled them with images of our earliest years. Mislabeled, or not labeled at all, each new tray is an adventure. No telling what image or memory will come up next. Me as a three-year-old. My brother at five. Both of us on the old Ford Ferguson tractor with a girl named Molly. The tree fort we built out back. Trip upon trip to the Ishi Wilderness in the foothills west of Lassen.
But no pictures of Simpson Camp. None of the oaks or the old stove or how we set our tents or the nearby cabins at Smith Camp. And none of that gorgeous boxer named Jovanna.
ELLIE’S APPROACHING 100, but I am hoping to visit with her soon. Mom’s going to arrange it. I want to get a little history that I can report back to the ranger. I’m also going to continue to search these thousand-and-a-half slides for an image. And I’m going to take a trip up to Mendocino Pass as soon as the snow clears so I can find the playground of so many Memorial Days so many years ago. I’d really like to go there again. Maybe take some pictures to go along with the ones I have lodged in my head.
Hopefully, someone’s hung a red bandana at the spur.
© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press
www.churchoftheopenroad.com
The drive to the old sheep summer pasture was a grueling three-and-a-half hours across the floor of the Sacramento Valley, into the Coast Ranges at about Willows or Orland and up a twisty and torturous Grindstone Canyon through Alder Springs and Plaskett Meadows.
“Follow the signs to Covelo, but stop before you get to the pass,” were Zibe’s directions. “I’ll hang a bandana on a tree at the spur.”
The rock-strewn, windy road was not a place to be placed in the back seat of the ‘63 Ford Ranchwagon, but being the little guy in the household, my calling dibs on the front seat – even the middle of the front seat – had no pull. More than once, family paid a price for me sitting in back as it took a month to air my vomit out of the seams, creases and breathable pores of the vinyl upholstery.
JUST THIS SIDE OF MENDOCINO PASS, Simpson Camp was a place no one really knew about but Zibe and his wife Ellie, their kid, Eric, Jovanna their boxer dog, and us. Around a campfire Zibe would tell us stories of running sheep up the glade, herding them with Model T Fords that had to be driven in reverse up toward the steep summits because, in those days, fuel traveled from the tank to the engine using only gravity. No pumps. When the grades got too steep, the gasoline wouldn’t drain into the fuel line. “The damn things’d die and start coasting down backwards. I’ll tell you what! Helluva circumstance.” I have a picture in my mind.
I also have a picture of Jovanna, lazing in the mid-day sun curled amidst a clump of skunk cabbage as if God had provided this dog bed and this sun just for her. We had a slide somewhere.
We also had a slide of the stand of oaks, naked in the alpenglow just after sunset. The oaks, dad said, looked like a Greek chorus. Brother and I’d agree although, at the time, we had no idea what a Greek chorus was.
We had pictures of the campsite, cooking on the derelict cast iron stove that was left from the sheep-camp days, and of the cluster of cabins at Smith Camp, nearby, where each little house had its own intact iron stove – for a time. Last time we visited, the stoves had been “salvaged.”
SIMPSON CAMP can no longer be located on the Mendocino National Forest Map. I contacted the ranger who shared that the site is of archeological value and by removing the signs and taking it off the map, the Forest Service could be better assured that the artifacts there would be left alone. Terrific idea. I am grateful.
I told her of my frequent visits to the site and let her know that Ellie Simpson is still living and that she may have both pictures and stories to share. I’d try to arrange something. In exchange, I received very general directions to the site.
TODAY, I AM GOING THROUGH RACKS OF SLIDES – some racks from our family and some from the Simpsons. It turns out that when Zibe died five or six years ago, Ellie, whose vision was in decline, threw out all the family photographs and slides. Son Eric was dead, also, so there seemed no reason to hang on to flickers of those family times. She gave the empty trays to my mother who filled them with images of our earliest years. Mislabeled, or not labeled at all, each new tray is an adventure. No telling what image or memory will come up next. Me as a three-year-old. My brother at five. Both of us on the old Ford Ferguson tractor with a girl named Molly. The tree fort we built out back. Trip upon trip to the Ishi Wilderness in the foothills west of Lassen.
But no pictures of Simpson Camp. None of the oaks or the old stove or how we set our tents or the nearby cabins at Smith Camp. And none of that gorgeous boxer named Jovanna.
ELLIE’S APPROACHING 100, but I am hoping to visit with her soon. Mom’s going to arrange it. I want to get a little history that I can report back to the ranger. I’m also going to continue to search these thousand-and-a-half slides for an image. And I’m going to take a trip up to Mendocino Pass as soon as the snow clears so I can find the playground of so many Memorial Days so many years ago. I’d really like to go there again. Maybe take some pictures to go along with the ones I have lodged in my head.
Hopefully, someone’s hung a red bandana at the spur.
© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press
www.churchoftheopenroad.com
Saturday, May 8, 2010
BEAR CROSSING – EL DORADO NATIONAL FOREST ROAD 2
AS THE WORLD CRUMBLES under environmental disasters and Wall Street catastrophes of our own making, I escape on the BMW to get away from – or make some sense of – it all.
Rounding a bend, lost in the El Dorado, a handsome cinnamon-colored black bear and her cub, dutifully having looked both ways, begin to amble across. I slow. They glance up and, seeing me, hurriedly rumble to the other side. Mama hustles baby up a fir tree and disappears into the underbrush.
I pass with a renewed sense that all is right with the world – at least in these reaches.
© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press
Rounding a bend, lost in the El Dorado, a handsome cinnamon-colored black bear and her cub, dutifully having looked both ways, begin to amble across. I slow. They glance up and, seeing me, hurriedly rumble to the other side. Mama hustles baby up a fir tree and disappears into the underbrush.
I pass with a renewed sense that all is right with the world – at least in these reaches.
© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
NOT SO FAST FOOD – A COMMON HAZARD OF DRIVING AROUND IN OR ON A CONVERSATION PIECE
I’D GONE TO THE TACO BELL outside of Grass Valley because I knew they meant it when they said “fast food.” So after a couple of burritos, I am straddling the GS, securing the helmet and preparing to head just a mile or two further to my 6:30 writers group meeting.
A gentlemen with a few years on me towing a nine-year-old granddaughter, walks past where I am parked, shoots me a knowing look and says: “BMWs. That’s the only way to get around the world, I’d say.”
I nod.
He turns. “I gotta tell you a story.” Granddaughter rolls her eyes, longing for her kids’ meal and a toy more than the conversation she knows is about to take place.
“I rode an R-75/5 [circa 1969-73] down through the core of Africa back in the early seventies. Me and a buddy.” He grins. “Alexandria. Khartoum. Nairobi. All the way to Cape Town.”
I watch forty years evaporate in the Taco Bell parking lot.
“Got on the ferry in France all loaded up with our gear and a couple of damned jerry cans filled with petrol, as if there’d be no gas on the dark continent.” He laughs. “Old German fella come by us on the ferry and looked at our outfits and says:
‘You boys look like you gonna be driving in za desert. Vell, take it fromm me, you von’t get too far like zhat.’
My new confidant must have looked curious.
‘Back in da var, I vas the chief of ze motah pool for General-field-marshall Rommel. Ve could nevah get more than seven or eight miles before ze damned BMWs would seize up…’
The little girl tugged at Grandpa’s hand. Clearly, she was starving.
“Well, the old boy fetched up some porous medical adhesive tape – the kind that lets the skin breathe? – and by the time we’d disembarked in Tunisia, the little radiator that cools the engine oil on the R-75 engine he'd neatly wrapped so that air could get through, but the sandy grit of the desert couldn’t.” The grandpa points to the place on my bike where the appendage would be. “Drove the whole distance without so much as a hiccup.”
“Sounds like you took the same trip that Boorman and MacGregor talk about in their book Long Way Down,” I say, “only they took it on bikes like this.” I cock my thumb toward my wiz-bang 2009 BMW GSA. “And they had a support crew following them in two trucks.”
“Haven’t read the book,” the gentleman says, his granddaughter feigning weakness, about to collapse on the pavement for want of a Chalupa. “But we sure as hell didn’t have a support caravan. Just two stupid American boys on BMWs in Africa.”
FOR AN INSTANT I am only a few degrees of separation from the Panzer Division and the old Desert Fox himself – the heralded military genius whom George Patton and the Second Armored chased all over North Africa.
Then I realize I’ll be late to my meeting.
So much for fast food.
© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press
A gentlemen with a few years on me towing a nine-year-old granddaughter, walks past where I am parked, shoots me a knowing look and says: “BMWs. That’s the only way to get around the world, I’d say.”
I nod.
He turns. “I gotta tell you a story.” Granddaughter rolls her eyes, longing for her kids’ meal and a toy more than the conversation she knows is about to take place.
“I rode an R-75/5 [circa 1969-73] down through the core of Africa back in the early seventies. Me and a buddy.” He grins. “Alexandria. Khartoum. Nairobi. All the way to Cape Town.”
I watch forty years evaporate in the Taco Bell parking lot.
“Got on the ferry in France all loaded up with our gear and a couple of damned jerry cans filled with petrol, as if there’d be no gas on the dark continent.” He laughs. “Old German fella come by us on the ferry and looked at our outfits and says:
‘You boys look like you gonna be driving in za desert. Vell, take it fromm me, you von’t get too far like zhat.’
My new confidant must have looked curious.
‘Back in da var, I vas the chief of ze motah pool for General-field-marshall Rommel. Ve could nevah get more than seven or eight miles before ze damned BMWs would seize up…’
The little girl tugged at Grandpa’s hand. Clearly, she was starving.
“Well, the old boy fetched up some porous medical adhesive tape – the kind that lets the skin breathe? – and by the time we’d disembarked in Tunisia, the little radiator that cools the engine oil on the R-75 engine he'd neatly wrapped so that air could get through, but the sandy grit of the desert couldn’t.” The grandpa points to the place on my bike where the appendage would be. “Drove the whole distance without so much as a hiccup.”
“Sounds like you took the same trip that Boorman and MacGregor talk about in their book Long Way Down,” I say, “only they took it on bikes like this.” I cock my thumb toward my wiz-bang 2009 BMW GSA. “And they had a support crew following them in two trucks.”
“Haven’t read the book,” the gentleman says, his granddaughter feigning weakness, about to collapse on the pavement for want of a Chalupa. “But we sure as hell didn’t have a support caravan. Just two stupid American boys on BMWs in Africa.”
FOR AN INSTANT I am only a few degrees of separation from the Panzer Division and the old Desert Fox himself – the heralded military genius whom George Patton and the Second Armored chased all over North Africa.
Then I realize I’ll be late to my meeting.
So much for fast food.
© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press
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