Episode 5: Birthday Blues, Burned Breweries, and Stinky Sulfur.

      There is a certain fortitude that is required when roaming long distance by motorcycle. Motorcycling is uncomfortable. Worth it, but uncomfortable. The well-rehearsed dance of donning heavy gear in the morning can get you breathing heavily for the wrong reasons. Two armloads each of all the stuff that we can't leave outside at night and can't lock in the car, that inevitably needs to get to and from the last hotel room, up the stairs, and all the way to the opposite end, every time, and after packing that stuff back on in the morning, your whole heavily loaded machine needs to be balanced and backed up by human power alone.

     Just when you think the physical part of the job is done, you press your chest against 70mph wind all day long, and your brain grows weary from scanning for rocks, potholes, slick spots, and gravel around every corner. Not to mention avoiding 4000lb metal killing machines that are piloted by people who can't be bothered to literally lift a finger and let the world know what their intention is by turning on the little blinky orange light on the corner of their goddamn Prius killing machine. (Sigh)

     Thats about where my head was at waking up in South Lake Tahoe the day after my birthday. I felt we were behind a schedule (that didn't exist) and are going to be late for a destination (we didn't have) and needed to rush to make up for our previous wandering (which was the point). Thankfully, precious little Bubbles talked me off the ledge. She quoted my favorite commandment from the scriptures of open binary-wheeled mechanical conveyance travel:

"When you feel you're in a hurry, SLOW DOWN." Take a break, spend another day... relax! See what wherever you are has to offer! 

     Well, we didn't do any of that, but her positivity did make me feel much better as we rushed headlong into the worst tourist traffic either of us had seen around the lake. It looked like highway 89 was going to provide some fun curves, wonderful views, and our eventual camping spot. But first we had to get around the lake.  Fuelled up and splitting lanes, we puttered (Well... I "rumbled", she "puttered") past throngs of sightseers locked in traffic, and headed around the west side of Tahoe towards Truckee, Ca. We couldn't be too mad about our clutch hands getting cramped, after all we were looky-loos too on this marvelously clear day, and the bicycle lane just might have provided enough room to squeeze past the tight spots of stopped traffic (allegedly) and keep us moving forward.

Sticking your iPhone to video out of your Bimmer window at 40mph will never compare.

It really is a beautiful lake.

      Traffic happily cleared about halfway around so the riding and the scenery got exponentially better, alternating between sighting the perfect curve, and viewing glimmer of fresh water through the shady trees. We decided to stay on 89 as it left the lake and took us north into the Tahoe Forest. It wasn't long before the heat of the day had us looking for late-lunch grub in quaint little Quincy, Ca. 

     Since brewers are craftsmen, and craftsmen care, its an obvious choice to pick a brewery for reliably good food, and of course a perfect dry throat cure as well. Quintopia Brewing got the nod because it looked like a nice, local place, oh and it was the only one in town. Turned out it was a nice,  local place and had us shedding a tear in our beer. 8 days before we arrived, fire had taken this entire small town brewery to the ground. All that was left was their little restaurant across the street.

From their site:

In the early afternoon of 29 July 2020, my beautiful brewery was taken away from me by flames – and also taken from my supportive local investors, from my wonderful staff, and from a very special community.

A fire on a neighboring property spread to our building, and despite a huge effort by firefighters, the building was destroyed by nightfall. Our friends and co-tenants at the Plumas Crisis Intervention Resource Center also lost their space and belongings, and the West End community Theatre lost all of their prop and costume stores. This was a tragic combination of loss.

Fire is as old as time, and has no mercy. When it strikes, it takes more than property. Thankfully no lives were lost in this incident. But consumed in that indifferent inferno were years of blood, sweat, tears, dreams and pride for all involved. For me, the fears and trepidation that come with starting an ambitious new brewery in a small mountain town now seem shadowed, perhaps by the billowing black smoke itself, compared to the feelings we are experiencing right now.

Quintopia is a community owned brewery, funded by several dozen individuals, of which many additionally contributed time and skills during construction of its production facility. It was a beautiful and unique space that I put thousands of hours into creating with utmost care and detail. A combination of carefully laid out and professional brewery process infrastructure, inside of a warm and attractive room that reflected an aesthetic born of my own life experience, and of our Northern California mountain town culture and environment. Hand-milled blue stain pine and centuries-old doug fir from my backyard and neighbors’ properties adorned bar tops, trim, and cabinets. Recycled materials such as roll-up doors, lumber, and insulation weren’t just thrifty, they reduced our construction footprint, and held a history of their own. Ironically, some of the historical original Meadow Valley Fire Department building now rests in the rubble of Quintopia, those materials unfortunately short lived in their new role.

The way forward is uncertain. But through the trauma – through the lingering smell that keeps me awake at night, the looping images of the destruction unfolding that day, the sting of personal possessions lost, the uncontrollable tears that keep taking me by surprise, and the suffocating weight of this next chapter ahead – there is a resilience that is creeping in hour by hour, day by day. We will rebuild. Quincy’s first brewery in 100 years has much more story to write yet. The support from the Community, the local brewing industry, and our friends and family is astounding. Our place in Quincy culture was rooted more firmly than I even realized, and I am powerfully aware of the heartfelt loss that Quincy is feeling.

During a global viral pandemic, saying this is a tough hand to be dealt is an understatement. The financial repercussions of this are yet to be fully understood, despite insurance, and the emotional and practical burdens cannot be worked around. But we are so grateful to have our taproom and restaurant intact across the street, so we can continue operating. We will remain open our regular hours – and possibly additional hours – and plans are being developed to brew some of Quintopia’s flagship beers on nearby Breweries’ facilities . We will supplement our brand with other amazing local craft beer, and strive to continue to be a hub for socializing, great food, and exceptional beer in the local community.

Your heartfelt expressions of concern and kind words give me strength… the generous offers for office space, brewing facilities, construction support and more give me hope… and the financial contributions are incredibly appreciated for its practical help in supporting my wife Hannah and I, our young family – many of you know our 6 year old identical triplet girls – and Quintopia, as we navigate these difficulties.

Thank you. From the depths of my fire-ravaged heart. Big love Quincy, and all who are part of the Quintopia story.

Tom Hepner
Founder, Brewer, Manager
Quincy, California

     Insurance will never cover the effort of hardworking people like that, who put their skill and care into something beautiful. Poor Bubbles had lost everything to a house fire as a young woman, so even though we didn't know these fine people personally, this hit particularly hard. After a truly spectacular lunch at their restaurant,  we hit the road on a more somber note, realizing how quickly fortunes can change.

      The marvelous 89 was gaining elevation and the air was cooling for some relief past Lake Almanor. It did indeed continue to provide the curves and views as promised that culminated that day at the Lassen Volcanic National Park. It's a pretty remote park, which explains why the NFS couldn't be bothered to man the booth. We made sure to put our FIFTY dollars of admission into the envelope (allegedly) to ride the 29 short miles of highway through the park. A buck-and-a-half for every mile of "public lands", on a state-built highway. Hypocrisy smells a lot like Vaseline.

     Volcanos are stinky. Incredible! but stinky. Neither of us had the desire to explore that area of the park. Instead we forged ahead to higher ground.

Theres nothing like being face to face with undeniably gorgeous scenery to humble and remind us why we're choosing the 'hard way' to adventure.

Just look at that ROAD!

Manzanita lake looks cold but there were people swimming! We regret not stopping and dipping our feet in:)

      We already knew from looking at the time and the map that we were destined to be 'between places' by the time the sun went down this day and traveling through national parks means gas is hard to come by. The tanks are empty, the sun is setting, do you turn left towards that lurking, godawful freeway to get gas in 20 miles guaranteed? Or do you roll the dice and turn right towards nothing but the tiniest little blip on the untrustworthy map called Old Station? 

     A quick check with the ever willing Bubbles, and she says "Roll the dice". What a rockstar.

Episode 4: Sleeping with the Grumpy Bear

     How you react to any situation, ultimately sets a chain of events in motion. It's oh well, it is what it is, shit happens, make the best of it, poor me, or any number of things Garfield says, that really set the tone for what happens next. To you. 

     It could be someone not 'liking' the picture you tagged them in, or maybe Apollo Creed won't stop punching you in the face. Do you plead for him to stop? Do you run away? Or do you get the Hell up and punch him back? Adventurers like myself and my lovely, ever trusty compatriot, are punchers.

     Of course, I don't mean that literally. The 'chain of events' is pretty predictable if every time we got bad news, we hauled off and started punching people in the face. What I mean to say is, keep fighting. In this case, it may very well have been just the look on our faces that did the fighting for us.

     "No worries Micheal, nice to meet you and you all have a fun night. Tell them Happy Birthday from us! Say, would you know of a place we could camp out?"

    Ya man, sure. Just go set up your camp over there behind the bar, under those pine trees wherever you like, and hey, would you like some homemade whisky?

Cue Bubbles and I, mouths agape, wide-eyed, and in total unison: Yes um... we would like some homemade whisky!

    Want to know how to become instant best friends with both Bubbles and I? Exactly that way. It turns out our new best-est friend ever Michael doesn't own the place, hasn't asked the owner for permission, he doesn't even work there, and in this beautiful little forest town that time forgot, it doesn't even matter.

     He does introduce the owner Kendra, who is very sweet and shares my sisters name. She is happy enough to oblige us with not only confirmation that it's fine to post up anywhere we want, use their little airstream trailer, use the bathrooms and showers that are open all night, but also gives us a hook-up on some really good IPA's. Talk about a welcome wagon. Faith in humanity is being restored.

     We have enough time to find the perfect spot to set-up camp, crush a couple of those tasty IPA's, play a little dice (I won, neener, neener), before we settle in to watch the stars blink on one by one and the big bright moon pop up to illuminate our surroundings through the net top of our cozy tent. Call me a cynic, but this isn't how I pictured 'sleeping behind a bar' would be.

 

Home sweet home!

Not so sure I want to.

I don't care what Yelp says. Only the good bars have a deer head and a snake skin on the wall.

    The blissfully cool and quiet night had us both snoring so loud, the threat of real bears investigating these new loud neighbors was down to a minimum. Even the occasional rustle of a curious field mouse at night was a calming reminder that we were doing this the right way and comforted us both right back into dreamland. Waking early with the rising sun had us craving coffee, so we obliged the invite to our new favorite bar and got big cups of the black stuff, right as they opened. Our bestie Micheal was also there. We aren't sure where he slept, but the breakfast burrito with vodka screwdriver combo is the sign of a true professional. We took the advantage to get to know him a bit better and what a neat guy he was. He has been a world traveller his whole life, and used his construction ability as barter for room and board while building houses and schools with non-profits in Argentina, Brazil, Chili, and many more I forget. Not a bad record for mid-30's and one of the happiest most content people you'd meet. He was doing the same thing there in Kennedy Meadows for the last 18 months and was lamenting it was the longest he'd really stayed anywhere. Ever. We both would have loved to pick his brain and hear his stories all afternoon, but our empty stomachs and empty gas tanks were crying for attention.

     Nine-mile road that leads down from the 6200' Kennedy Meadows to the sea level 395 is about 6 miles long (I dunno) and chopped straight into the side of the mountain. It's treeless and steep enough theres a ton of stories about trucks and cars going over the edge that were never recovered. I didn't tell Bubbles that until we left the parking lot of Grumpy Bear to head down.

That turkeys expression is always accurate.

     The drop in elevation also brings the desert heat of summertime in California. At the bottom, 95 degrees and 108 miles past the "No gas for 78 miles" sign, we took a northerly turn and hoped that somewhere close in the shimmering distance the heat waves would reveal little metal pumps that dispense the rendered dinosaur juice we needed so badly.

     Freeways suck, highways are tolerable and the 395 isn't that bad of a highway. Neither one of us wants to be there. We'd rather travel there, but our slight backtracking adventure of the day before had solidified that the 395 was the only reasonable way north, on this side of the Inyo mountain range (In yo mountain! sucka! Sorry, but it really is hilarious if you do the accent just right. Sucka.), because the only other way is the I-5 through Fresno and I'd rather be punched in the face by Apollo Creed. What comes with 'the only way north' is say, if there was an impending summer rain storm, no way to navigate around said summer rain storm.

     After a successful dino-juice/water stop that came just in time, memories of our previous trip Jeeping in Death Valley, deep snow, tragically lost, sleeping with the fire of scrap wood stolen from a mining camp, had reminded me we had found civilization upon our exit in the form of the Mountain Rambler Brewing Company. Easily 2 hundred miles farther north than I thought we were that day. Notice a theme? We had a paper 'map' then too:( A re-visit to the scene of the elated victory was in order!

1, plus an hour=0.00BAC. Suck it.

     Making good time means nothing without a destination, but even so... we were making good time. Shooting for something near Lake Tahoe, but definitely, absolutely, NOT the expense and crowd of Lake Tahoe. The highway sweeps past many beautiful lakes, and it wasn't until leaving Mono Lake and Lee Vining the skies had darkened dramatically.

See what I mean about the expression? Mono Lake! Sqwaaawk!

You can't even leave them for a minute!

     Looking intently at the free and invaluable MyRadar app we saw the rain storm up ahead that I so eloquently alluded too in my oh so excellent foreshadowing earlier. Blue is damp, green is rain, yellow is uncomfortably wet, and red means get shelter. Lots of green, enough yellow and red to be concerned, and zero shelter ahead. We're gonna get wet. I also took this opportunity to be a complete city boy sissy and book an expensive room with the crowds in South Lake Tahoe, in case we got soaked with nowhere dry to camp. 

     I've had practice using this app before during my prison time in Florida, bobbing and weaving my motorcycle through the inevitable thundershowers that come in at 3:25PM and last until 4:10 every single summer day, so using all my timing and superb skill to let one pass, we shot the gap on a wet highway only to be sprinkled upon enough to get relief from the hot ride we'd had all day. Win!

     Passing just into Nevada, we picked up the 89 to avoid Reno entirely. If you've been there, you know why. That lead us over the utterly amazing and steep Luther pass that crests at a cool 7735'. Great pavement, gliding curves, and pointing to a waiting hotel room with a hot shower!

Clouds still hanging low, but no more threat of rain on the Luther Pass

     Once in Tahoe, HOT showered and thirsty, we decided to take advantage of the free admission tickets to the beach. Admission. To a beach? Ya well, we took some shots through the fence of the glorious sunset, avoided the throngs of tourists, donated our passes to a friendly family, and decided to concentrate on the thirsty thing.

Obligatory sunset pics are obligatory, but still beautiful!

     Arm in arm we battled the forces of oblivious vacationers on rental scoots (only one dollar and I can full-speed slam into people and property as I wish? I'm IN!), found a good outdoor beer bar with terrible karaoke that turned out to be the band, and started feeling a little too close to civilization.  It's not the bars fault... you can buy a beer, but only with food (because a virus is contagious if you drink beer without food?). Oh, and the pretzel bites that you want aren't 'food', the shitty $4 hot dog on a dry bun that you don't want is 'food' (sigh). That OK, I just realized it's my birthday and everyone knows that not dying for an entire year deserves a celebration! I'd rather enjoy a nice cocktail anyway, but once we turned the corner, and the neon of the casinos lit up the drunken masses gallivanting aimlessly and starkly unprotected, it was an easy choice to just grab some celebration supplies (small bottle of good whisky, and lemon yogurt almonds) and courageously retire to our room, grumbling as old folks do. I'm beginning to relate to the guy from "UP!". She even let me win at dice:)

Episode 3: Should have taken a left at Albuquerque.

    

 It's never a good sign when Bugs Bunny is right. 

     We are riding high spirits from some bowm-chicka while the edge of the Milky Way slowly rotated across the top of our tent the night before, and it left both Bubbles and I with some serious momentum in the morning. We are both new to packing up this particular set of camping gear, but found a happy symbiosis quickly. I roll, she fills the sack, I load. It's satisfying, and we both usually finish our jobs at the same time. I still was able to successfully Jet-Boil us some drinkable coffee (with a couple of stolen 7-11 creamer pods), and be on our way pretty early. Thankfully this would be our saving grace as the sun set on us weary, cold, no where to sleep, on this very evening. But we didn't know that yet. 

     A quick and curvy backtrack to James Store in Kernville for a re-supply of fuel, water, and snacks, even a few of those dreaded phone call internetting things we are trying to escape so badly, and then finally, some blessed relief from the heat once the speedo read more than zero as we followed the lazy winding river up into the Sequoia Nat'l Forest and past the Trail of 100 giants.

     Not much traffic but plenty of swimmers, campers, all just side by side with strangers, partying away, oblivious. Does denial count as oblivious? Because these people were pretty happy. I'd still venture guess it's better than going to Sturgis...

     We saw the sign. Hell, it felt like it was just out of town and it even conveniently said "395" and had a cute yellow arrow. In fact, it was so close to town, we questioned it, stopped, and had a whole discussion about it, checked one of the four paper maps we had,, then promptly continued on forward with the confidence there would be another one.

      Paper maps are great, they don't even need batteries or a cell signal. Since paper maps have been around for so long now, they must be very, very, accurate right? One of the mysteries of the universe that this insignificant little Cooter will never understand, is that they aren't. I concede that the tiny little cherry stem roads that I like so much could be missing, but inaccurate?? NO info is better than bad info. As a young man, and pre-cell phone, I have 'navigated' home before from Laughlin, NV using only the back of a cocktail napkin from The Colorado Belle (RIP)... The fact that every single paper map isn't perfectly accurate in 2020 just makes my mind wobble. I can see it now in the giant dark underground room where shitty maps are printed:

"Sir!, we need to write a word here over the road marking!"

Well then, just delete the road under where you type the word.

"But Sir! Isn't that ruining the whole point of a map?"

 LET MY LITTLE TIMMY SQUIGGLE WITH HIS SHARPIES, AND DON'T QUESTION ME JOHNSON, OR I'LL SEND YOU BACK TO THE PAYPHONE FACTORY! 

     It took 3 hours. The lovely twists and bends, giant Sequoia trees, cresting past a cool 7000', cute little Ponderosa (pop 94), and finally getting to some sort of civilization enough to see a sign and now know that we were nowhere near the destination of Kennedy Meadows that we had aimed for. The roads were so twisty and bendy that in the 3 hours after leaving Kernville, we had only gone 70 miles and dropped right into quaint little Springville, CA. On the wrong side of the Inyo mountain range.

   The. Inyo. Mountain. Range. It's not too often I get lost, but they do say "go big or go home", and I am not going home so...

     Bless the Bubbles for a pretty consistent positivity. We are on an adventure after all, but this does leave us very late in the day and a very, very, long way to go, or sleep with the bears. We did end up sleeping with a bear this evening... but for now it's the ritual of topping off the tanks, topping off the waters, and heading out to an uncertain destination. Because there is absolutely no way back over the mountain range besides backtracking the entire way we came, I decide to be happy enough to carve my way back to our starting point that morning.

Take it easy Turkey!

    The same Poderosa, CA we had passed earlier gets the easy choice for a pretty awesome lunch. We end up sticking to a light breakfast/late-big-lunch schedule because having dinner available is always questionable when you bite off more than you can chew. Thats a pun, people. As we enjoy a perfect clear day eating on their expansive deck, watching some poor boy working to split what seems to be an entire Sequoia tree on the parking lot, I let any stress of a destination fade away. It is whatever its going to be, we are prepared, comfortable, and ready for anything! Let's do this!

     One of the new additions to our camping gear is a 1/2 gallon gas jug and it's a fantastic peace of mind to know theres a 25-ish mile reserve with you. If you fill it. Which I keep forgetting to do. Because it's a new addition to the camping gear. I do ultimately remember it though, just as we finally get to our turn off to the Sherman Pass towards Kennedy Meadows, because the sign says "no gas for 78 miles". It should have been around 10am when we got to this point... well it was... but I digress. Now it's 4pm, and simple mileage addition makes me sweat just a little even in this cool, thin air. Bubbles will be fine with her trusty Ninja sipping 55mpg, but with my big Buells original engine architecture dating back to 1950's means a slightly less efficient conversion of dinosaur bones-to-noise ratio. Whatever, we are currently 'going big'.

     And so well worth it. Neither one of us can believe this is basically our backyard. Never mind the 4 ridiculous days it has taken to get here this time, we could be here in about 3 hours via freeway nonsense to revisit anytime we wish. And we will.

 

     Truly stunning. Silent and empty. Panoramic views. We had forgotten all about the hot desert floor and packed on layers of clothing  as we rode up past 9200' of elevation and back down through chilly, shaded tree lined roads. I'll admit I was keeping an eye on the sinking sun as sunset can change drastically depending on which side of the mountain you're on and we had been on both sides of this one. Today.

     Miles ticked off as I coast-raced in neutral down the back side towards the only town before the dreaded 395. More for fun than efficiency, daring myself not to touch the brake and scrub off speed before every one of the thousand corners, scanning for bear scat and calling out potholes to Bubbles on the comm. Finally a house. Then 2, then a group, ahh a sign of people. Its been awhile, hello people! Every state campground is closed (because you get the flu from camping, I guess) and every private campground is full because all the state ones are closed, duh. And the only gas station is closed for us too. No matter, we're really going big now. I want to go see the Grumpy Bear. Always the first stop when dirt biking with good friends years ago, and I know they have some supplies, possibly some local guidance for camping, and definitely a cold beer after this long day.

     It's getting dark pretty quickly, so just a short ride down the only main street. Theres cars in the lot, so we can rest easy knowing they aren't closed like the gas station was. They must have seen us coming, unfolding off the bikes and taking off our gear to shuffle our dusty selves up the wooden steps because we meet Micheal across the fence that says "Sorry guys, we're closed. Having a private party tonight"

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.