Episode 2: Grapevine, Grapevine, Grapevine, Grapevine.

      I disagree with the notion that motorcycles are more dangerous than a car. Despite the actual numbers agreeing with that opinion, motorcycles are vastly more maneuverable, with uninterrupted sight-lines, and better exposure to sound and environment, than the typical humdrum SUV blob has. That exposure is also the source of my worry for Bubbles.

     Retracing my steps, I can't help but to visualize the worst. Looking in the ditch for a glint of metal, or a day-glo green helmet while mentally going through the inventory of the first-aid kit is not the way I pictured how the first day would go. A few miles of intently scanning while my concern in increasing exponentially, and the phone rings in my helmet. It says "The Bubbles". I didn't kill her today. Whew!

     Turns out her ever faithful Buell started sputtering and dying at the same exact time I shot forward to satisfy my apexing withdrawals and play pro-photog at the cow crossing. Poor Bubbles had found a shade tree near an abandoned house in the heat and patiently waited for me to notice that half of the members of our motorcycling adventure were missing.

   Ugh, no spark in the front cylinder. Here I am stealing parts off my bike to diagnose hers, making both bikes inoperable then, fire.

    That was clear sky an hour ago.

     Jerry Rodrigues is one of the 1132 residents of Caliente, Ca and possibly one of the nicest people we've met so far. Ok the only person we've met so far, but he is pretty nice! And frankly the reason we're out away from the city in the first place. Jerry's lived right here for his whole life. From bussing in to Bakersfield for high school, shipping off to Vietnam, thankfully returning safely, to now having a gig inspecting railroad tracks all over Cali. Pulling up in his construction yellow S-10 Chevy, his first words were "Hey, I saw you from my house across the street, is everything OK? I have some ice water if you want?" Try that broken down in a city with a population of 3,979,567. Caliente +1, LA -1.

     There's success diagnosing the spark issue when Bubbles front plug wire falls apart in my hand. "No worries" says Jerry "I'm building a hot rod over there, I got what ya need". A quick tour of Jerrys backyard to show off the new Can-Am he's proud of, unfinished projects, and a Caliente history lesson, I use my Leatherman, trusty Benchmade, and a length of plug wire stolen from the 1984 Oldsmobile hot rod, and have a good plug wire to get us back on the road.

    I have been a professional technician, and a 'fixer' my whole life so I recognize the risks of machine repair and when to be especially careful. I know that spark plugs use about 30,000 volts to make the spark jump the gap of the spark plug, and to be very cautious checking that spark that fires when you crank the engine over. I also know that my personal Buell has a built in "spark plug cleaning feature" that fires the spark plug many, many, times when you flip the red run switch on. And absolutely forgot all about that "feature" when testing this new wire I made on my bike. ZZZZZZZZZZZAP! Holy Hell I will never forget that "feature" again. Ever.

This picture will haunt me.

    Sporting a fresh Doc Brown hairstyle, I know without any doubt, that the wire I made works just fine, I install it on Bubbles bike and.... no joy. Arrgh. Swapped coils with my bike, nothing. Checked wires, nothing. Checked ECM, nothing. I even enlist the help of friends smarter than me via text and, nothing. Suns getting low, the grass fire is getting uncomfortably smokey and close, time to call it. AAA can't get us for hours and even when they do, no ones allowed to ride in the truck (the 'new normal' rules) so that options out. As a testament to Buells, we can still ride into the night, with only one half of her engine working, all the way too beautiful, scenic, hot as crap, full of homeless, Bakersfield. Oh, never mind those first two adjectives.

     The Hampton Inn sets the scene for bike repairs and fine dining for the next 2 days, but for tonight, dehydrated and beat from a very long day, we miss dinner at the only decent looking walkable distance restaurant by fifteen minutes and have to settle for Jack in the Box, within sight of the hotel. But that means drive thru only, which means getting back on the bike, which means suiting up in the heat, donning a sweaty helmet, and taking 15 minutes sitting at busy intersections in the heat just to cross the damn street. 

     The next morning, still confident in my skill and with every single other option exhausted, I focus on the ECM being the ultra rare cause of her woes. It's halfway through lunch when I decide its worth the 240 mile round trip over the Grapevine, back to the box of Buell parts where a completely functional ECM waits for me to be the mechanical hero. Suit up, set the throttle lock at a safe and legal 55mph (allegedly, Officer) and the miles fly by. Its dinner time by the time I get back and the simple ECM swap not only does not fix the bike, it makes us just late enough that the only decent walkable restaurant is closed. Again. The magnificent Mexican cuisine from the Taco of Bells gets the call this evening for fine dining choices in Bakersfield. Maybe it was the Chalupa Supreme Dorito shell double cheese with fire sauce, but my favorite quote from the man's man of my generation crept into my head. "A man's got to know his limitations". Although I'm not holding his 6 1/2 pound, .44 magnum revolver while I'm thinking it, the quote still carries some weight. 

     Taking defeat gracefully is a hard learned and hard earned trait I am proud to have. Or maybe I'm just so used to being wrong. Either way, Bubbles bike was in pieces and not going to be repaired despite my best efforts. We decide to take Rio up on his hugely generous offer to haul her, and her bike, back home. Never daunted, Bubbles wants to re-start this trip immediately, no rest day, and this time on her new Ninja 400 she just bought as her track bike with no idea if the bags fit, or even if she can do the long ride in a much more aggressive riding position that the Buell has.

  Rio-the-gentleman-savior has her loaded up early, I'm making that trip over the Grapevine for the third time in 2 days, and before ya know it we're in her driveway adjusting saddlebags on her Ninja and riding back out of town by noon. Determined to persevere! 

Yep, it all fits! The little Ninja will prove itself to be quite the 

awesome ride.

Lower Kern River, off the 178.

Because of the first 3 days of frustration, we cheated a little and used the freeway to get to the (thankfully) curvy 178 into Kernville. It still has me traveling the Grapevine for the fourth time but making very good time to the lunch spot destination at Kern River Brewing, and just enough time before sunset to get the very last camping spot at Headquarters campground, right on the Kern river. 

The Caliente fire is still raging!

It may not be the grassy field, high in the Sequoias that we pictured 3 days ago, but the cool waters of the Kern river on my feet, watching a happy Bubbles float in the lagoon, sure feels like a victory to me.

The turkey knows his peeps.

 Well rested under the stars, easily packed and ready for day 2. I mean day 4...

     Look at those smiles! Neither one of us happy assholes expected this to be the longest riding day, getting virtually nowhere, again, of the whole trip.

Episode 1: Cooter, Bubbles, 2 Buells, and a Ninja, HAI!

     "The difference between an ordeal and an adventure, is attitude" says author Bob Bitchin'. He got that nick-name from the legendary Cheech and Chong, was a body guard to Evel Knievel, a long time biker, and extreme sailor... so with a repertoire like that, I trust he's right. 

     With both Bubbles and I soaked with sweat, our motorcycles disassembled under a very small shade tree in a very hot desert, the mushroom cloud of a fresh grass fire only a mile away, and the sharp hum of 30,000 volts still vibrating up my arm, it was clearly time for a better attitude. But we'll get to that.

     My version of Mr. Bitchin's quote goes: "The difference between a trip and an adventure is lack of planning". I don't mind a plan, so I'm sure it's just sheer laziness that I usually end up adventuring, and this was no different. Except, The Bubbles.

    A lifelong friend, lionhearted companion, and a perfect puzzle piece to add to this usually solo stupidity adventuring. Only just having her one year anniversary passing her MSF test with honors (haha), I have no doubt of her skill, safety, and will power, to make this an even better Escape From LA. In the last year, her voracious desire for the sport has netted her 3 cool motorcycles, competent repair skills, and even a full restoration of her first bike! She's done a half dozen track days, LA traffic (no, your city is not 'as bad as LA') and over 10,000 miles spent winding through the Santa Monica Mountains, apexing her little pig-tails to her hearts content. But me, as an old hand at this, knows there is always something new to upset your balance (that there's foreshadowing, folks).

     Both Bubbles and I knew the dumpster fire that 2020 turned out to be was going to force us to be a bit more comfortable with winging it, and that suited us perfectly. Armed with a bunch of new, untested camping gear (don't do that), zero reservations (do that), a tentative destination to my Mumzys place 2 states away (Marionberry pie for breakfast? Cmon, ALWAYS do that), and our positive attitudes, spent the last night in a comfortable bed, completely sleepless with excitement.

     Buells are fantastic motorcycles. Fun, weird, and simple as a hammer. You know how people resemble their pets? Same thing for motorcycles. I have made many miles and many happy memories saddled up on Stella, my XB-12STT, and since Bubbles drank the Buell-aid, she'll be riding an XB12Scg she bought last year from Rio. We met Rio over Craigslist to buy the bike, who not only put a giant box of extra parts in the deal that will be very handy in a day or so, he also turned out to be a good friend. Also very  handy in a day or so. The bikes are basically identical, with 1200cc V-twins, except I ride the long/tall version, and hers is the short/low one. Like I said, pets.

     There was one other pet that made the cut.

Ya. I know.

Get it?

Now you get it...

    The morning of, went without a hitch. Up early, coffee, Cliff bar, a game of solitaire on the throne, last minute second guessing packing, and the only proper way to leave the city of LA is to go through the Angeles National Forest. But to get to Pasadena from the start point near LAX means 3 of the worst freeways LA has to offer, and even Monday morning traffic can be lethal. Literally. 

     We made it through the NASCAR-esque bump drafting and lane changes that LA traffic is known for, to the first gas stop at the base of "The Hill" not too shaken (but definitely stirred). My first thought was "Some motorcyclists choose to travel by interstate freeways only". Not to begrudge anyones choice of entertainment but no, miles aren't the point. The destination isn't the point either.

     The whole length of Angeles Crest Highway is stellar scenery that should be enjoyed at a slow pace. Instead, it gets completely ignored by motorcyclists because there are 1000 gorgeous curves to fly through as well. I'm familiar with those roads now thanks to the Satans Whores Motorcycle Club Ltd, LLC that are nice enough to show me that waking up at 5:30am on a Saturday (on purpose) can actually be fun. Burning off the edges of your tires is a fantastic way to spend a sunny day with good friends. Allegedly, officer.

    Perfect blue skies and hot weather only solidified our resolve to do the absolute minimum of any freeway riding that we could possibly do and head for some elevation via the tiny black squiggles on the "map". I put "map" in quotes because the pathetic paper AAA road maps are, well, pathetic. They are fine for traveling by interstate, but then why would you need a map? It's true the free maps are you getting what you pay for. The Apple Maps App color engineer gets a swift kick in the 'nards as well. Dark grey squiggles on a dark green background? Kick. Road names and whole roads that disappear with the slightest zoom out? Kick. 1pt font that doesn't enlarge? Kick, kick. Wheres that positive attitude again? 

    Thankfully I know my way around the lakes, through the Antelope Valley, past Willow Springs Raceway (where both Bubbles and I have had many fun weekends racing our hearts out), avoiding the 14 Freeway, just popping out for a fuel up in Tehachapi and short jaunt down the 58 towards Caliente/Bodfish road. It's only the first day and already I'm anxious for the next set of curves past this flat, boring valley. The next turn off is the Caliente/Bodfish road that connects to the aptly nick named Lions Back road. Lions Back runs the spine of golden grass hills and free range open cow pasture and was just resurfaced to boot! So when we exit the highway I throttle up and shoot forward on this perfect and desolate road leaving Bubbles to catch me at the next turn off. With plenty of daylight left, the plan is to take this road to the end, around Lake Isabella, through Kernville for lunch, and follow the Kern river up and up to pick our first campsite somewhere in an open pasture deep in the Sequoias. But we never made it.

     Only a few miles deep into this personal race track I spotted the perfect photo-op to catch Bubbles doing her thing, I pulled over next to a burbling stream and set up for my best Micheal Bay action-type impersonation. This will make a great video of her shooting around the corner, some free range cattle hiding under the shade trees in the background, lightings just right... I wait, it's hot. I take off my jacket. Still hot, I take off my helmet, carefully listening for the rumble of her V-twin coming. But only silence.

    Silence does grow. So does worry. Theres no hope of the comms working in this valley, and no hope of any cell signal this remote, so on with the gear again, and flip the u-turn I never wanted to have to make.