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!
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.
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.
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