9000 miles on an 84 fj

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El Prado and Tres Piedras are two very interesting stops once out of Taos traffic.
Both are located within 4 miles of each other on highway 64, nw of of Taos. The Rio Grande rivery has cut a deep gorge in El Prado, that is impressive to see and worth stopping for. Just beyond is the Earthship Biosphere, a wonderful collection of fantastically and purposfully styled houses that use and collect water and solar energy in creative and efficient ways, and incorporate recycled materials. An addicted coffee drinker, the cafe sign on site also captured my attention.

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Our ride to Santa Fe from the Biosphere on route 68 requires recrossing downtown Taos, again testing my  good humor in the face of heavy traffic. Along our route, we are confronted by a rambling collection of Americana, mostly represented by old gas pumps. These, to me, artistic displays of either collecting or hoarding are fairly common in the southwest, however periodically the scope of the collection causes one to pause, as was the case here, and as well earlier in the day, when we came across a bunch of deteriorating 60s and 70s motorcycles.

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We rested for the night at the Silver Saddle motel in Santa Fe. One ritual that Peter and Vlad had initiated before I met them, and to which I heartily subscribed, was the sharing of a nightcap, usually burbon, while discussing the day's journey.

Breakfast was included the following morning, and Vlad and I chatted with the owner about the various green aspects of the Biosphere, serving politically in Santa Fe, and dogs.

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Tuesday dawned gray, with light intermittant rain. We decided that we wanted to see a bit of the town before departing, stopping first at the train station, and then in old Santa Fe.
Once again, Peter was accosted at the train station by another sohc 750 afficinado. This fellow still had his own old 4, and regaled us with a personal story of his affection for the old beast. I believe this was the beginning of Peter's loss of enthusiasm for the ritual pilgrimage, and I think he walked away leaving me to nod appreciatively when a response was needed to the story. Personally, I loved these ad hoc meetings, and the stories that were shared. The first photo shows me with the admirer, who I recall thanks to Peter was actually the parking attendant at the rail station.

I really enjoyed old Santa Fe, both because it was pretty, in understated way I enjoy most, and because aside from the many shops, which exhibited some beautiful and expensive gifts, there was a public area just off the central grassy square, where crafts people could vend their own wares. I particularly was taken by the Pueblo style beaded necklaces that one woman was vending. She had a great eye, I thought, for choosing colors and shapes, and her craft was fine and attractive. Her pricing was steep enough to cause me second thoughts, and I thanked her without purchasing. I kept thinking about her product though, especially a creamy off white, light brown, and green piece which kept coming back to me.

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Our first timeout for emergency roadside repair occurred as we tried to depart from Santa Fe. While gassing up, Vlad noticed he had acquired a nail in his rear tire. I had the necessary repair materials and tools, but Peter ended up being the more experienced hand, making the definitive plug placement. Turned out to be solid too, as Vlad rode a couple of thousand miles more on that Avon Storm, before it once again rested in his St. Louis garage.

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Riding down route 14 towards Albuquerque, the sky began to get darker and darker. Riding into Albuquerque towards the historic quarter, where we hoped to get lunch, was my introdution to south western urban planning, a misnomer if there ever was one. Traffic lights, timed without apparent regard to traffic flow begin 10 miles from the center of town, and continue every thousand feet or so. Speed limits of 55 or 65 mph are not unusual, and it is only after a few or 20 lights, that one realizes the value of not trying to go as fast as one can to get to the next light, because there always is a next one.

In any case, the second postponement of the day's activities, well planned by Peter as usual, occurred at one such light almost to our destination. Running too close to the speed limit, I had to abruptly stop for a light. There were a series of sharp bumps that I felt as I braked, and the front end descended and progressively bottomed out, then never rebounded. I made the light, but the front of my bike was significantly lower than it had been, with the lower triple tree kissing the lower fork leg. Further, I noted, the left directional stalk had parted company from its aluminium frame mounted fairing support.

I yanked up the front end, which stayed up for a bit, got lost trying to find the restaurant we had decided on, which was on an obscure side street in an area where many streets were one way.  Ugh, stuck in a big town where I knew no one. I checked to make sure the upper fork legs had not moved in the trees, what else could have caused the forks to collapse?  I had taken the forks apart completely during the process of mqking the bike road worthy, replacing seals and fluid, cleaning and polishing damper rods, and legs. I had replaced brake and clutch lines with Spangler ss, retaining the anti dive unit function, which I thought was fun and quaint. A period innovation that had been shown to have limited or no particular positive function.  The springs were ok, a bit tired perhaps, but not a primary consideration at the time. Had one broken? I had never seen or heard of that possibility. While I pondered this, over a beer, sitting outside at our restaurant with Vlad and Peter trying trying to make light of the problem, I could not have considered that anything more could complicate the journey. I was concerned about slowing down Peter and Vlad. Peter's schedule was the tightest, as he was scheduled to fly out of LAX on Sunday morning, and had worked out a fairly immovable timetable of activities in the interim. Vlad too was feeling the pinch of time, and wanted to be back in St. Louis the following Tuesday eve because of his work. My initial sense was we would have to part company. I would stay in Albuquerque and figure out how to get going again.
That's when it started raining. Seriously raining. Rain that hurt it came down so hard, and soaked one in an instant. Rain so hard that the idea of rescuing any gear from the bikes was immediately futile. We were getting soaked under our courtyard umbrella, and moved Into the restaurant to eat. I couldn't think about eating, and have no memory of having done so. I called Anders and Mike to confer, although neither initially answered, Anders called me back. He had never experienced a similar problem either, but in the course of conversation, the subject of the anti dive units was broached as a potential cause. I told Anders I would let him know how it worked out, and called a couple of local shops, ultimately deciding to go to the local Yam dealer, Bobby J's. Vlad and Peter, true friends that they are, refused to leave me in my time of need. I am humbled by their steadfast support. I could have dealt on my own, but it was much more fun and reassuring to have them with me. I rode very slowly and carefully over to the shop, a couple of miles from our restaurant. The monsoon had abated, but the force of the storm had caused all manner of rocks, portions of trees, and an amazing amount of earth and sand to accumulate on city roads. Dirt biking in Albequerque, while the idea was enticing in the right setting, I never figured I'd have this opportunity in the center of the city, on an fj.

Rob, the service manager at Bobby J's, got me right in. The first wrench I talked to, a young guy of 33, who's name I have misplaced, was nice enough to swap out the banjo bolts to the anti dive units with plain bolts, effectively blocking off the units. When I asked about bleeding the front brakes after doing so, he said it wasn't necessary, which seemed strange to me, but I let it go, probably to minimize cost. I had met the other mechanic on duty, Jack, and had admired the TIG welder he had at his station, and his comfort in using it, before asking if my directional stalk could be rewelded.

Sure he said, but because my bike was over 10 years old, the shop did not want to disassemble the bike to access the broken fairing support. I suggested that I could do so, off the shop grounds, returning the bike and frame for attention. My proposal accepted, we searched the industrial neighborhood adjacent to the shop for a suitable place to work. Eventually, we decided on the covered entranceway of an apparently closed gym. It had started to pour again. Removing the fairing on the early fj is quick work, and aptly aided by Vlad, I rode the bike back to the shop, leaving my friends at the gym, and removing the fairing support in the dealer's parking lot. Jack took the bike in, and fussed over the job for the better part of an hour. I chatted with Rob, who told me he thought the melanoma he had had removed almost 20 years ago had returnes, but that he preferred to go dirt biking rather than deal with it, especially as he figured the consequence of its return was fatal. I hope I convinced him that the reason that he had survived for so long after the initial incidence was due to misidentification of the tumor's malignancy, and there was hope and good rational for having the new raised mole that had reappeared looked at. As he never returned my email however, I have the sense that he is out someplace dirt biking.

Jack turned out a beautifully welded, cleaned up, and painted job. The charge was nominal for the work, and I hope the extra money I gave to Rob for a shop beer party was used purposefully.

I returned to the gym to find that the gym had opened, and Peter had disappeared. Reassembling my bike in the rain, Vlad related the hat trick mechanical repair incident of the day  had occured when in trying to tighten his weeping clutch master cylinder cover, he had slipped and perforated his oil filter. Peter had gone in search of a new cannister style filter at an auto parts place. Apparently the gym manager was sympathetic to our situation, and offered no objection to our remaining on the property to complete our repairs. Peter returned successfully, Vlad went to install his filter, and the next fellow came over to admire Peter's bike and relate his story about having to avert a fight to the death with a motorcycle gang near Bakersfield while returning from a visit to his daughter in LA. Nothing like getting told a good story while fixing one's bike! Mission accomplished, and hopeful that my front suspension problem was at least temporarily solved, we pushed on towards Gallup, and the El Rancho hotel.

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Post script:
I have found that if I load originally sized JPG photos individually, modifying my post each time to do so, they don't come in upside down!

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Stopping for gas and an al fresco fast food dinner, somewhere near Continental Divide NM, where we were once again accosted by a restaurant employee who had a friend who's friend also had a Honda 750, or was it a 550, we made it to Gallup and the El Rancho in the early evening. The manager, small, bespectacled, of interesting heritage, a bit condensending, and rightfully proud of the hotel, allowed us to park in a covered portion of the parking area. Our adjoining rooms, on the ground floor adjacent to the service area were not the finest offered, but were large and gracious. The foyer and salon of the place were amazing to regard. As was my normal routine, I passed out soundly after our nightly burbon digestif  and chat.

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Peter had planned Thursday, as a day that allowed for considerable lattitude. While he had several alternatives for our itinerary, we had only about 150 miles to go, as the crow flies, from the El Rancho to our evening's resting place in Winslow Az.

It was initially difficult for me to follow Peter's route and planning without trying to formulate my own. Being a passive participant is a bit foreign to me, but I reminded myself that I had asked to join Peter's trip, and he had spent considerable time in thinking and planning to make this a memorable time. Once I allowed myself to do so, I very much enjoyed not having to make choices and decisions. When I set off on my own, after parting company with Peter and Vlad, I found it difficult to start to make my own choices again.

Our first destination of the day was towards route 264 and Window Rock.
While the geological formation is interesting and significant, the memorial there is even more so to me.
The memorial is generally for Native Americans who fought and fell on foreign soil, and specifically for the  code talkers who used the Navajo language as the basis for creating a communication code that was never broken by our enemies during ww2. My sense of unrest regarding Native American plight was piqued on this visit by two elderly ladies who sat alone on a shady corner of the parking lot, making jewlery. I stopped to chat with them and check out their work, and was impressed with their kindness and friendliness.  The sense of god informed the conversation, but it was their positivity, and laissez faire attitude about whether I was attracted to their work that I particularly found endearing . I have an Armenian friend, an elderly lady that I see as a patient, who will never forgive the Turks for the genocide of 1915-1917. We talked about it yesterday. I grew up with a dad who was haunted  for eternity by liberating an Austrian concentration camp during ww2. The sense of ease that I felt when chatting with native Americans, which I did quite frequently on this trip, and when I was in the Pacific Northwest 40 odd years ago, is hard for me to fathom. I don't  know that it is forgivness, but one has the sense that there is not an impediment to being close. Heck, my family was living in  hovels in eastern Europe when  the American Indians were subjected to their own genocide, but I still feel crappy about it. More so, however, I relish the opportunity to share and learn. How cool is that!  

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Our next stop was the Petrified Forest and Painted Desert. Both are part of the same national park, a quarter of a million acres in size. It is impossible to photograph the scope or immensity of the vistas or sense of space that we saw. The enormity of this park, and as well many spots in the central and south west  has caused me to think of how one might have survived in the days before roads and rest stops.

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We rode about an hour from the Park to stay with Floranel Earl, at the former Marble Motel that she and her late husband Lee had purchased in 1974, and renamed Earl's Motor Court. On the way, passing the Wigwam motel, which was full up! At Earl's,  there was a male nurse at the state prison, who stayed in the next room on one side, commuting down from Nevada, and staying a couple of days weekly, and a woman on the other side travelling from Socal to visit an old friend in Santa Fe, where she had lived for many years. People were friendly, and we chatted amiably as we cleaned up the bikes a bit on a nice evening. We walked about 2 blocks, and ate dinner in a little, satisfying cafe, the Brown Mug, before strolling back to Earl's for a nice drink, and soft bed.

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Given that Vlad and Peter really loved to stop at all manner of touristic enticments, Thursday's 450 mile itinerary from Winslow to Barstow seemed somewhat a tall order. We hadn't gone more that 25 miles before we stopped to view the old ghost town that had once been variously called Canyon Diablo and Two Guns, Arizona. At one time at booming frontier town that sprang up to service crews putting in rail lines, the town died out over the last century, existing last as a trading post and gas station. Nothing much there now except some ruins and alien graffitti.

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Our next stop was Seligman Az, one of the few towns on rt 66 that seems to be attracting ample tourists. During the few minutes we were there, several buses full of of foreign sightseers distorted their passengers. Sure enough a french couple from Orange stopped so that the monster could admire Peter's bike. Peter quickly disappeared, as had become his wont, and I practiced my french for a while, before finding a quiet and shady seat away from the throngs of folks trying to find any shred of the experience of 20th century travel on the mother road.

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Continuing on the well worn tourist route towards Kingman, and Mr. D'z where we stopped for a lemonade, we stopped for gas and photos at the Cruz N 66.

I am usually not drawn to tourist attractions, somehow feeling that they are too obvious, or that I am somehow too sophisticated to participate. Peter and Vlad are enthralled by the chance to be enveigled by American kitsch, perhaps as they have not become bored after a life time's subjection. I have to admit that their enthusiasm made it more fun and tolerable to experience as well.

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The heat of the day had already caused us to shed most of our gear, but the ride from Kingman through Needles CA, and the Mohave desert was both scenic and somewhat of a victory for both riders and bikes. Especially air cooled bikes, as the temperature was 115f in Needles when we arrived.

For those who have never experienced this extreme, I offer these two anecdotes;

First, we rode with our shields down. It was stifling, and claustrophobic, but preferable to raising the shield, as the hot air physically burned our faces.

We stopped for gas in Needles, brutally hot, we were drinking water in a tiny area of shade when a short heavy set trucker sporting a mullet with pony tail came out of the station. Walking to his truck, he did a double take when he saw Peter's bike, walked back towards us, and went into some variation of the oft heard story about his own experiences. As he finished and started to walk towards his truck, I called to him to ask how he tolerated the heat. Stopped in his tracks, he turned towards us, with what might be called a violent look. His anger didn't seem to be at us, but more at the heat itself. "People say, oh, but it's dry heat", he spat out. " Let me tell you, an oven uses dry heat, cookies bake in this dry heat!" And with that he stomped into the cab of his Kenilworth, with its luxurious air conditioning, driving off in a huff!