After logging almost 2,000 miles, my 30-year-old bike is in need of some tender loving care. It needs a good valve job, a real vacuum synchronization of the carburetors, and the leak from the camshaft tensioner is really starting to bug me. Oh, yeah, and I really do want to get a clip for the choke cable, which I lost during my carb rebuild.
My budget is really tight these days so I'm putting off the valve job for the time being because once it's done, I know I'll need to vacuum sync the carbs and I can't spare the $80 bucks I need for the required tool.
But repairing the camshaft tensioner, which will require some new O-rings and a gasket, is cheap, so I plan to tackle that soon. It leaks pretty much all the time now, and is making a bit of mess. I've got the parts on order, along with a new clamp for my choke cable. I figure, since I'll have the tank off anyway, I can take care of that at the same time.
I'm also going to try and figure out, once and for all, the wiring in my headlamp bucket. Right now, my signals not only don't work, but during my last attempt, I crossed some wires so that in order to start the bike, I have to signal right!
In the meantime, I've become really good at hand signals.
Friday, June 19, 2009
The rest of the Ride
Next year, and the year after that, and for as long as I can twist a throttle, I plan to begin each summer with a long motorcycle ride.
At Cape Blanco, yet another guy came up wanting to know about my bike, where I was from, where I was heading. And, just like all the others, was a Harley rider. I gotta say, on the road, Harley riders are a pretty damn friendly lot.
My ride to California was more relaxing than I could possibly have imagined.
No radio, no iPod, no phone in my ear, just the roar of the wind and my engine.
I didn't fret about finding a job, my daughter's grades, or my dilapidated garage in need of repair. All that mattered was the miles of road before me, and where I would stop for the night.
I rode out of Santa Rosa about noon, after lunch with my brother and niece, and took Highway 101 north. I spent my first night with my tent a stone's throw from this spot _ Lake Benbow State Park. 
It was dry scrub grass, gnarled trees, and mostly empty campsites. One was being used by an older, weather-beaten man taking it slow on his trip south, riding a bicycle. I gave him my left-over firewood the next morning when I left and we talked motorcycles for a bit before I rode on about 8 a.m., my wheel pointed north.
Once I passed Eureka, the highway began to follow the coast of Northern California, and it's gorgeous country there. I kept wanting to stop and take in the view, but I knew I'd travel pretty slowly if I did that. Still, sometimes I couldn't help myself. 
When I reached Crescent City, I thought about taking Highway 199 again into the central part of southern Oregon, and shooting up north on I-5. The winding 199 was tempting, but I opted for staying on the coast. I've never been on the Oregon Coast, except one brief visit to one single spot. I'm glad I took the Coast.
It's full of twisties and there must have been a rally going on south of me 'cause a lot of bikes were heading that way. I rode to Cape Blanco, where there's an old lighthouse and a nice, clean campsite that offers, would you believe it, free showers! And they were hot! A very nice, unexpected treat.
You can barely see the lighthouse in the background of this photo. I need to get a better camera, seriously. At Cape Blanco, yet another guy came up wanting to know about my bike, where I was from, where I was heading. And, just like all the others, was a Harley rider. I gotta say, on the road, Harley riders are a pretty damn friendly lot.The next morning, I went riding and I didn't stop riding for 12 hours. It was exhausting and exhilarating. I don't know why I kept on, but every time I thought about pulling over, the road kept me going. I made it from Cape Blanco to Tacoma, Wash. in about 12 hours. No speed records set since it's less then 500 miles between the two. Still, I was tired and covered in dead bugs when I pulled up in front my house with the sun just setting.
I was 22 years old the last time I went on a long motorcycle road trip. I remember the wind, and the heat, and smiling at pretty girls. It's been more than 20 years since then. I think from this trip I'll remember the wind, I'll remember the road, and I'll remember the peace.
I was 22 years old the last time I went on a long motorcycle road trip. I remember the wind, and the heat, and smiling at pretty girls. It's been more than 20 years since then. I think from this trip I'll remember the wind, I'll remember the road, and I'll remember the peace.
I hope to be back on the road soon.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Second day on the road
There's a stretch of highway that connects the southern part of Oregon to the California coast.
It is shaded with thick forests of trees. There are steep slopes going up on one side, and steep slopes going down on the other.
It is Highway 199 that leads to I-101 and it is an amazing ride for a motorcyclist.
Highway 199 is going to become a favorite ride of mine, I'm sure.
I left Grants Pass on Monday morning just before 7 a.m. and took Highway 99 out of town until it became Highway 199.
It was my first time on this road so I can't recall where the road changes or what towns I passed. But I remember there was little traffic on it and, at one point, I came upon a sign that had the symbol for a curved road and the warning, "NEXT 8 MILES."
I was thrilled, being able to tilt right and left and right and left for eight miles with no cars in front of me.
Road trips are great, and I've taken plenty by car and truck. But the thing about being on a motorcycle is how connected you feel to the road and the passing landscape. You smell everything, from cows and sheep to the damp earth after a morning rain.
You feel everything -- a strong breeze blowing across wide open farmland, or the chill that comes when you roll into a shaded valley.
And you hear so much, even over the roar of the motorcycle. In fact, what I most li
sten to is my motorcycle. I'm listening for any changes in the engine, anything that sounds like it's laboring, anything that needs to alert me that I should stop and give my bike a rest.
I love that sense of being part of the road and, in a way, part of the environment.
Highway 199 led straight into Crescent City, on the California Coast. That's where I finally stopped for breakfast, roughly two hours after leaving Grants Pass.
The food was good, the price was a bit high. Oh well. I'm not sure I'll eat there again.
I hit the road soon after through the part of 101 that is called the Redwood Highway. At one point, I stopped along side the road to take in the view of the redwood forest.
This is a photo from that stop. Then the rain began and I hopped on my bike to make a quick exit. I got pretty damp at points from all the dew in the air, and I have no rain gear with me.
Still, it wasn't too bad. I did stop to put on some long johns 'cause I was getting pretty cold. And there was a brief period where I wished I had brought my winter gloves along.
But with just a saddlebag for my luggage, I really kept my gear to a minimum.
Funny thing, I had no close calls while riding my bike on the highway. Drivers were unfailingly polite. On the second day, I even ran across a pair of friendly Harley riders, who actually waved to me as I went past them while they stopped at a roadside diner.
It was a good day's ride.
It is shaded with thick forests of trees. There are steep slopes going up on one side, and steep slopes going down on the other.
It is Highway 199 that leads to I-101 and it is an amazing ride for a motorcyclist.
Highway 199 is going to become a favorite ride of mine, I'm sure.
I left Grants Pass on Monday morning just before 7 a.m. and took Highway 99 out of town until it became Highway 199.
It was my first time on this road so I can't recall where the road changes or what towns I passed. But I remember there was little traffic on it and, at one point, I came upon a sign that had the symbol for a curved road and the warning, "NEXT 8 MILES."
I was thrilled, being able to tilt right and left and right and left for eight miles with no cars in front of me.
Road trips are great, and I've taken plenty by car and truck. But the thing about being on a motorcycle is how connected you feel to the road and the passing landscape. You smell everything, from cows and sheep to the damp earth after a morning rain.
You feel everything -- a strong breeze blowing across wide open farmland, or the chill that comes when you roll into a shaded valley.
And you hear so much, even over the roar of the motorcycle. In fact, what I most li
sten to is my motorcycle. I'm listening for any changes in the engine, anything that sounds like it's laboring, anything that needs to alert me that I should stop and give my bike a rest.I love that sense of being part of the road and, in a way, part of the environment.
Highway 199 led straight into Crescent City, on the California Coast. That's where I finally stopped for breakfast, roughly two hours after leaving Grants Pass.
The food was good, the price was a bit high. Oh well. I'm not sure I'll eat there again.
I hit the road soon after through the part of 101 that is called the Redwood Highway. At one point, I stopped along side the road to take in the view of the redwood forest.
This is a photo from that stop. Then the rain began and I hopped on my bike to make a quick exit. I got pretty damp at points from all the dew in the air, and I have no rain gear with me.Still, it wasn't too bad. I did stop to put on some long johns 'cause I was getting pretty cold. And there was a brief period where I wished I had brought my winter gloves along.
But with just a saddlebag for my luggage, I really kept my gear to a minimum.
Funny thing, I had no close calls while riding my bike on the highway. Drivers were unfailingly polite. On the second day, I even ran across a pair of friendly Harley riders, who actually waved to me as I went past them while they stopped at a roadside diner.
It was a good day's ride.
Great trip
It was somewhere along Interstate 5 in northern Oregon when I took a deep, relaxing, meditative breath.
I glanced at my odometer. My home was more than 300 miles north and it had taken me that long before the cares and troubles of my day to day life slid off my shoulders and onto the blacktop flying just beneath my boots.
Last month, I decided I might never have another chance to take a leisurely bike ride south. At the moment, I am out of work, laid off from my old job in March.
Despite several applications, a few tests, and one background interview, I have yet to land a job. Add to that the obligations of middle age, when children still need our time and parents increasingly do as well, and I could feel myself begin to bend beneath the strain.
I asked my wife whether she could spare me for a while if I took a road trip south. At first, she wasn't thrilled, but as my angst became more acute, she fell wholeheartedly behind the idea.
I think she needed a break from me as much as I needed a break from real life.
And so the past few weeks, I did my best to prepare my motorcycle for the first road trip I've taken in more than 20 years. Yeah, I think I was 22 when I hopped on another Suzuki I once owned, though that time I drove from Los Angeles to the Oregon border, then turned right around and went home.
Anyway, I rebuilt my carburetors, installed new intake boots on my bike and my airbox, checked my wiring, and bought a few emergency supplies, like a tire repair kit.
I did a few last minute repairs around the house and then on Monday morning (not Sunday, as I had planned), I hopped onto my bike and just drove.
That first day was tough on my body. I'm not used to being on a bike for so long. I drove from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., with no break longer than 10 minutes, enough to gas up or stretch my legs at a rest stop.
By the way, Oregon rest stops are absolutely awesome. They're as beautiful as the best city parks and a welcome respite for a traveler.
I didn't meet many friendly bikers the first day, mostly running into Harley Davidson riders, who rarely responded to my friendly waves.
By 5 p.m., I was driving into a sky full of thick, fat, gray clouds. A blue-white lightening bolt flashed just a few miles down the road from me at one point. Then it began to rain.
The lightening was enough to convince me to bag my original plan of camping for the night and I decided to take a room at a motel. I happened to pass one in Grants Pass, Ore., just as the rain began, so taking chance as my guide, I stopped there.
The motel owner was pleasant, but the motel itself was a rather sad little affair. An abandoned car sat right outside my room. This car had been there so long, spiders had spun their webs on the tires!
The place was empty when I checked in, except for one old woman who briefly pulled her curtains aside to glare at me as I parked my bike, then immediately flung them shut when she caught me watching her in return.
Later, about three other rooms were filled that night. My room was missing the secondary latch that most motel room doors have, though the guide book in the room urged me to use this missing device. The screw holes where it had been were still there, it was simply the lock that was missing.
I barricaded my door with a table and chair.
The sun had been up about an hour when I packed my bike and headed out of Grants Pass. It was a beautiful, sunny morning and turned out to be a fantastic, second-day on my trip.
I glanced at my odometer. My home was more than 300 miles north and it had taken me that long before the cares and troubles of my day to day life slid off my shoulders and onto the blacktop flying just beneath my boots.
Last month, I decided I might never have another chance to take a leisurely bike ride south. At the moment, I am out of work, laid off from my old job in March.
Despite several applications, a few tests, and one background interview, I have yet to land a job. Add to that the obligations of middle age, when children still need our time and parents increasingly do as well, and I could feel myself begin to bend beneath the strain.
I asked my wife whether she could spare me for a while if I took a road trip south. At first, she wasn't thrilled, but as my angst became more acute, she fell wholeheartedly behind the idea.
I think she needed a break from me as much as I needed a break from real life.
And so the past few weeks, I did my best to prepare my motorcycle for the first road trip I've taken in more than 20 years. Yeah, I think I was 22 when I hopped on another Suzuki I once owned, though that time I drove from Los Angeles to the Oregon border, then turned right around and went home.
Anyway, I rebuilt my carburetors, installed new intake boots on my bike and my airbox, checked my wiring, and bought a few emergency supplies, like a tire repair kit.
I did a few last minute repairs around the house and then on Monday morning (not Sunday, as I had planned), I hopped onto my bike and just drove.
That first day was tough on my body. I'm not used to being on a bike for so long. I drove from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., with no break longer than 10 minutes, enough to gas up or stretch my legs at a rest stop.
By the way, Oregon rest stops are absolutely awesome. They're as beautiful as the best city parks and a welcome respite for a traveler.
I didn't meet many friendly bikers the first day, mostly running into Harley Davidson riders, who rarely responded to my friendly waves.
By 5 p.m., I was driving into a sky full of thick, fat, gray clouds. A blue-white lightening bolt flashed just a few miles down the road from me at one point. Then it began to rain.
The lightening was enough to convince me to bag my original plan of camping for the night and I decided to take a room at a motel. I happened to pass one in Grants Pass, Ore., just as the rain began, so taking chance as my guide, I stopped there.
The motel owner was pleasant, but the motel itself was a rather sad little affair. An abandoned car sat right outside my room. This car had been there so long, spiders had spun their webs on the tires!The place was empty when I checked in, except for one old woman who briefly pulled her curtains aside to glare at me as I parked my bike, then immediately flung them shut when she caught me watching her in return.
Later, about three other rooms were filled that night. My room was missing the secondary latch that most motel room doors have, though the guide book in the room urged me to use this missing device. The screw holes where it had been were still there, it was simply the lock that was missing.
I barricaded my door with a table and chair.
The sun had been up about an hour when I packed my bike and headed out of Grants Pass. It was a beautiful, sunny morning and turned out to be a fantastic, second-day on my trip.
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