At last, there it is, the bridge over the Colorado River, the viaduct that will deliver me from the oppressive helmet law in CA to the freedom to ride bare headed in AZ. The ride from the O.C. through the inferno known as the Mohave Desert had been grueling beyond imagination. In the middle of nowhere at a flyspeck on the map, called Amboy, I made the mistake of asking a guy with a thermometer bolted to his handlebars, “Just how hot is it?” He chuckled and drawled, “It’s a buck ten in the shade.” Thing is, that was the only shade between 29 Palms CA and Laughlin NV some 177 miles to the east. What’s more, the tingling sensation emanating from every inch of my epidermis, exposed to the intensity of the broiling sun, had convinced me that if it was 110 degrees in the shade, some of the warm thermals I’d endured, for stretches of 8 or 10 miles at a pop, must have easily exceeded 120 degrees.
Ah, but that’s all behind me now. It’s late afternoon and it may be wishful thinking or maybe the heat has finally gotten to me and it’s just my imagination but it seems to be cooling down a bit now that I’ve passed through Needles, CA and I’m actually on the bridge.
There, in what must be the precise middle of the span, is the sign announcing the event, which I’ve so anxiously anticipated since I first began to plan this venture. I’m crossing the Arizona border! If I thought I wouldn’t get run down, I’d pull over right here, whip off that vile instrument of cranial persecution and heave it over the side into the torrent below. But I manage to contain my elation and suppress my primal urge long enough to locate the first opportunity to safely exit the roadway. It’s the driveway into a gas station about a quarter of a mile from the end of the bridge.
Yeah! That’s better. I’ve lashed the offensive equipment to my sissy bar and roared back out onto the roadway. As I head north on Rte 95 with the wind in my hair, I concentrate on that old, once familiar, sensation. It’s the closest thing to a feeling of freedom in motion that I’ve experienced in quite some time.
That tears it! I’m determined now! I’ve got to get in touch with my local A.B.A.T.E. chapter and become active in the anti-helmet lobby in California. This is how we were intended to ride: free, unencumbered.
You’re probably asking yourself, if I find the experience so moving, why it is that I don’t make the pilgrimage to the land of the windblown locks more often? What can I say? I’ve got responsibilities and, truth be known, the entertainment industry hasn’t always enabled me to be a consistent provider. Now you’re wondering what it is that I do, so I might as well tell you. I’m a vocal stylist. Over the years I’ve taken the money in my capacity as a “blue-eyed soul singer,” a Jazz singer and a few other genre’s as well. Currently I perform Sinatra favorites accompanied by background tracks. I also play requests on my DJ system.
Imagine being married to an entertainer? Suffice it to say, over the years; my wife has had to put up with way more than her fair share of shit. I’ll admit, life with me can be, shall we say, challenging, both socially as well as financially. Because of that, it’s difficult for me to justify the time off or the expense of a jaunt in the desert or to any place else for that matter. When I presented my case for this excursion, I attempted to convince her that Laughlin would afford me the opportunity to connect with industry people whom I wouldn’t ordinarily get a chance to meet. I got the impression she only half bought the idea but her look of skepticism eventually softened into a smile of resignation and compassion. The morning I left she bid me farewell with a kiss and a smile. Where do you stand in line to get a woman like that?
Anyway, from that gas station it took about forty-five minutes, through generally light traffic, on Rte 95 to reach Bullhead City and locate my fleabag motel. After a brief nap I reluctantly strapped on my bucket, braved the traffic and endured the old slow and go on the way over to Laughlin. A few months back I was invited to visit Intrepid Cycles in Temecula where Mike Johnston, the Sales Manager, offered me a test ride on their Resolute model (88” wheel base). I enjoyed the ride as much as I enjoyed hanging out with Mike, so I made it a point to drop by and check in at the Intrepid booth. Next, I breezed through the vendor exhibits, pausing only briefly to show the flag and to occasionally ooh and aah as I ogled a particularly outstanding specimen of two-wheeled metallurgy or feminine pulchritude.
It was Friday evening and the glitter in this miniscule gulch was amped up to capacity. Now, I’m as passionate about honky tonkin’ as the next guy and because of that, I’m not one who enjoys planting his glutes at a “22” table in a climate-controlled casino while a dealer methodically sucks the fiscal life out of me. So naturally I made a beeline for O’Leary’s bar back in Bullhead City. Instincts, honed from pissing away the better part of my productive years as a lounge lizard, convinced me conclusively that O’leary’s would prove to be the penultimate gin mill to be found on either side of the river. Sure enough, the otherwise unremarkable little watering hole did not disappoint. What a collection of characters! From the bouncers to the serving wenches to the bar temptress and the co-owners there wasn’t a dim-witted lout in the bunch. Each one had a story and an attitude. And they’re just the help. The cliental, might have stepped right out of Central Casting. Seriously, through the haze of cigar smoke and the odor of arm sweat mixed with stale beer you couldn’t miss being enthralled no matter whom you managed to engage in conversation or a game of pocket billiards. The bar scene from the movie “Dusk Till Dawn,” comes to mind. At this point I must apologize. Although I’ve wracked my saddle-weary, beer soaked, age-addled brain, the stories all seem to run together and the names of most of the characters I met that evening escape me. The only moniker that sticks in my head belongs to Scotty the cook. You’ve got to try his corned beef taco. Excellent!
I’d like to tell you that I awoke refreshed and invigorated at the crack of dawn the next morning ready to roar on over to Route 66 and hurtle headlong into the Zona Desert. I’d also like to tell you that I was clear-headed with a determined glint in my eye. Actually, I’d like to tell you a lot of things that make me sound motivated and in command of my faculties but after three hundred plus miles in the saddle a number of barley/malt beverages, a relish caked, mustard slathered tube steak & fries dredged through a veritable trough of ketchup, topped off with a couple of Scotty’s corned beef tacos, well, let’s just say I managed to keep it all down but the term unmotivated, as it applied to my condition that morning, would be a gross understatement. However, by 10:30 AM I’d manage to pound down a couple of pieces of Danish washed down with a Diet Pepsi, top up the tank, throw a boot over and trundle out onto Rte 95 headed north. I was clad in jeans and a black, sleeveless Harley shirt. Every square millimeter of me that wasn’t covered by clothing or hair had been liberally smeared with Hawaiian Tropic #30 sunscreen (the aroma reminds me of memorable days spent at beaches and ski slopes on both coasts). The temperature was already in the low ninety’s and the humidity was in the single digit range.
The plan was to head east on Rte 68, cruise on out to Kingman and drop by the Mother Road Harley dealership for the wet T-shirt contest and other nefarious goings on. Then I figured I’d pick up Historic Route 66 and head southwest through the badlands and on into Oatman.
Route 68 is a four lane divided slice of nirvana. Seriously, the road surface is smooth and even and the broad sweeping turns are nicely graded and well banked. The scenery was matched only by the temperate weather that Saturday morning. Thirty plus miles of inspirational vistas and moderate winds ushered me into Kingman.
I followed the signs to Mother Road Harley where I scarfed down a pulled pork sandwich and a Red White and Blue (Bud). If I were to leave you with the impression that the wet T-shirt contest was worth the effort I’d be guilty of outright fabrication for the sake of the narrative. I don’t know maybe I’m getting so jaded that it takes something really outrageous to rock my world. In fairness, some of the crowd seemed entertained. Having downed the comestibles I beat a hasty retreat to my Hawg, fired it up and hauled butes on out of there.
As I rolled back through Kingman I happened to notice an unobtrusive sign directing motorists to the entrance of Route 66 but the vaunted highway looked for all the world like an insignificant back road. I thought, naw, that can’t be it. I ignored the sign. It didn’t take all that long before I realized I had missed my turn off and that I was headed back toward Laughlin on Route 68. Fortunately I was able to hook a U-turn, retrace my route and locate The Mother Road. After a few meandering turns Route 66 south of Kingman straightens out and flattens out and presents the two-wheeled wayfarer with an opportunity for some serious kick back touring.
I’m one of those guys who doesn’t enjoy having a windshield mess up the effect of the wind on any part of my body that it chooses to assail. However, anyone who has ridden SoCal freeways during the day will testify that, for the most part, the behavior can best be described as a study in tolerance-to-pain. Rocks and debris blowing back off dump trucks and other vehicles with poorly confined loads can do a number on the flesh, whether covered or not. I discovered that if I duck down behind a 14”x 16” Windvest windshield, it affords me just enough protection to keep shit from hitting me in the face. Then, when the time comes and fortune smiles on me to the extent that it becomes expeditious for me to exit that particular multilane source or irritation, I pull over at my earliest convenience, produce a 3/16” Allen wrench from the change pocket of my genes, loosen the top two mounting bolts and tilt the diminutive shield back to the point where it has no appreciable effect on the wind. From time to time someone will ask a dumb question about the fact that I have the device tilted back so far, and, no, I suppose the profile of its overly rakish deployment doesn’t garner me any “cool points,” but while the arrangement may not be the best of either world, it’s acceptable for both. Plus I’m convinced that eventually more and more bikers will pick up on my discovery until there are squadrons of us plying the highways and by ways of the world with our Windvests tilted back!
Hey, I’m just messin’ with you. Forgive the rant and allow me to continue with my narration.
For me cruising is all about finding the “sweet spot.” You know what I’m talking about. When the position of the sun, the temperature, the humidity the wind direction and velocity all come together so that the air caresses your face like a dream lover, you’ve found the “sweet spot” as surely as if you’d crushed a drive off the first tee. On Saturday April 28th 2007 at approximately 12:30 PM on Route 66 south of Kingman the “sweet spot” for me was 60 mph. Of course, maintaining such a moderate pace dictated that from time to time, I needed to pull over to the extreme right side of the lane to allow riders whose “sweet spot” was apparently somewhat faster, to pass. I was happy to oblige.
After what seemed like far too brief a session of “cycle therapy” I noticed a sign that read “Oatman 8 miles.” Then the fun began in earnest. The flat, straight desert topography abruptly gave way to some of the most challenging twisties and outright switchbacks it has yet been my pleasure to traverse. Earlier that week I had decided to replace the worn rubber on my front wheel with an Avon Venom so I swung by Wheel Works in Garden Grove in The O.C. It would wind up costing a few bucks more than the Central European brand I had been running but both Gary and Rick mentioned it would feel stickier. Talk about an understatement, it only took a turn or two before I realized I’d purchased a significant up-grade in performance.
Despite the fact that my Deuce sports raked out front forks with a 66.6” wheelbase and a 90 mm wide, or should I say narrow, front tire, two factors that should make it relatively unwieldy and unstable in turns, I’m usually able to out distance my saddle buddies in the twisties. Remember those bikes that passed me on the flats. Heh, heh, I soon caught the tail gunner of that unincorporated group and made my presence known. He obligingly slowed a bit, pulled over into the extreme right side of the lane and let me pass. Then in turn so did the four other bikes that had passed me earlier. This entire procedure took less than three miles, affording me the chance to put my new front tire through a serious work out over the next five miles. At speed, it seems to take a bit more effort to pull the Avon off axis but once “on edge,” it tracks like it’s on rails. At slower speeds it’s extremely compliant yet its tracking properties continue to be confidence building. What’s more, I found the “ride” to be comfortable.
Route 66 mellowed out about a half a mile before the Oatman City limits. As I sought a place to park amid the motley throng of assembled iron glistening in the sun, lining both sides of the narrow street, the local sheriff noticed my quandary and gestured toward a space he happened to be standing near. The space was conveniently located, though it seemed to be perilously close to a pedestrian access way, but I figured what the hell the sheriff himself directed me to it. I thanked the wizened peace officer commented on my favorable first impression of the tiny hamlet and headed into The Oatman Hotel for a cold one. Oatman is a, well-preserved, early 20th century mining town. It is the epitome of Southwest Quaint. Wild donkeys have the run of the town, literally, it’s not uncommon to find one in the aisles of one tourist trap or another. They’re so nonchalant they actually seem to pose for photos. I met one of the town’s grizzled elderly residents. He was a shopkeeper. I’m damned if I can remember his name. They say the legs are the first things to go but in my case, apparently, it’s my short-term memory. Anyway, he bent my ear with a few short stories from back-in-the-day and then he regaled me with a brief history of the place.
The town sprang up like so many toadstools after a rain following a large gold strike in 1915. In true boomtown fashion the little burg almost became a ghost town when the ore petered out. But the steady supply of weary wayfarers in need of lodging and victuals traveling on Route 66 kept the town alive until the 60’s when Interstate 40 by passed the place and all but shut it down again. These days Oatman survives on revenue brought in by tourists looking to experience what a slice of life in the romantic, old west might have been like.
The ride back to Route 95 on Oatman Road (Route 66) was uneventful. I was able to pass a group of slow moving bikes shortly after leaving Oatman and cruise in my “sweet spot” all way to the sobriety checkpoint just before the intersection with the North 95. Apparently I appeared to be sober enough so they let me proceed.
After a shower and a quick nap at the motel I headed back to O’Leary’s. The co-owner, whose name also escapes me, recommended Mazatlan a local Mexican restaurant. It turned out to be a great heads up. Then I went back to O’Leary’s and hung out until I got a serious jones to do a little, “velvet night,” cruising.
Just a minute ago I went “off” about my favorite riding conditions, well, after sundown, the “sweet spot,” delivers a slightly different effect. As I glide through the night it feels like my face is being stroked by miles of velvet. In the past I’ve been known to describe riding in these ideal conditions as a fluid sensation. I used to refer to the ether generated by such a night as “The Dark Liquid” but these days I prefer the “velvet” analogy.
See, I’ve been cursed or blessed depending on your perspective with Delayed Circadian Rhythms. My body wants to go to sleep at 3:00 AM and awaken at 11:00 AM. This arrangement works great if you happen to be an entertainer, but if you work a straight job you can imagine how inconvenient it would be. The effects of the syndrome carry over into all facets of my life. This explains my preference for night riding. While it’s true I will take advantage of any opportunity to ride during the day, when the sun goes down giving way to a “velvet night,” I fairly tingle with anticipation until I can get in the wind. Ah! Rapture!
So at around 10:00 PM I twisted off a fistful and blasted out onto Route 95 headed south along the eastern banks of The Colorado River. My itinerary could not have been more simple. I intended to cruise until my soul was satisfied. The temperature was still hovering around 85 degrees but there were long stretches where I’d pass through refreshing, cooler thermals. Though it had been memorable, it had been just a bit too hot to truly enjoy the ride this afternoon, even though I spent the entire day sans helmet. The cooler night air made this stretch pure ecstasy. In the future when I’m wound up and unable to sleep, I’ll focus on my evening ride in the desert until I can imagine the velvet caress of the temperate Zona night wind enveloping my flesh and soothing my psyche. Insomnia will soon find itself over matched, relinquish its grip and let me drift off to dream.
