Also, neighbour has fitted the full ti Akra to his MT-09. Sounds mega.
Also, neighbour has fitted the full ti Akra to his MT-09. Sounds mega.
Were you doing interstates? I did back roads (until the clutch cable snapped) and found it to be fun. Lots of country and country folk out there.Originally Posted by TheBenior
Interstate for the first 3/4ths to make time, then more interesting roads as we got closer to Kentucky. We saw quite a few other motorcycles on those roads.
I bet. I was going to camp in the Hoosier National Forest but the logistics weren't good. Filed that away in the back of my mind for a later date.
Big trips on sportbikes aren't always the most comfortable but they are fun.
Ruminations of a newly licensed rider who once used to ride twenty five years ago. Yes, literally twenty years ago.
Took the Bushpig for her first service today. Twas supposed to be at 600 miles but the dealer I bought it from omitted to include the owners manual when they shipped it to me from Indiana, and I had an inkling that she was due for some attention from the dealer. However, the inkling came from reading threads online from other owners, and since the bike was released in Europe, UK and Australia first, most of them are calibrated in kilometers. Their 1000 kilometers being roughly equivalent to 600 miles. I had initially been waiting, and by waiting I mean riding anywhere and everywhere for no goddamn reason in order to reach the 1000 mile mark, when it hit me that for me it was 600 miles, and, ... oops, I was already over that.
It's Monday. Lotta motorcycle shops are closed. And I had plans for today, plans that included the first stage of my "pseudo round the world trip." I say pseudo because I aint trying to ride no round the world ride. My ass hurts already and I only did fo hunnerd miles today. My ass is not having no part in no round the world bike trip. That, it's made abundantly clear today. And that rebellion is quietly echoed by my still tingling hands. But what exactly is a "pseudo round the world trip anyway?" i hear you axing. I'm glad you asked.
When I was growing up in Africa, I remember seeing giant men, bearded, dirty men, oozing masculinity and funky smells, riding big dirt bikes across our country, and they were still going places beyond. Invariably, these bikes were Honda Africa Twins, BMW R100GS's, Yamaha Super Teneres, Cagiva and Ducati Elefants, and all manner of other bikes. These men always had great big smiles on their faces, and bright, bright teeth, and seemed carefree and happy, quite unlike the dour and joyless adults that surrounded me. And they spoke foreign tongues that promised otherworldliness and mystery, and they seemed generous and larger than life. They also appeared to laugh a lot, loud, belly rumbling laughs that required one throw back ones head.
Their contrast to my adult peers, the quiet, worried, harried, burdened men, who seemed to live a life where pleasure was measured, made me envy them, envy their laissez faire, carefree, nomadic travels, their foreign languages, their recent past in countries foreign, and the allure of travel bit me. This was no way helped by my father, a man who's travels as a result of managing a football team saw me get postcards from every corner of the continent, and across great seas too.
Now my dad, a very charismatic and outgoing man, resembled these men; he laughed loudly and with everything, travelled a lot, and didn't measure out his happiness in little bits here and there. He jumped in with both feet in everything he did, a big smile on his face, a twinkle in his eye and a positive attitude no matter what. I learned the best kind of mischief is enjoying yourself, even if what you're doing is nothing wrong or untoward. My dad also had a motorcycle, a big black BSA (I think) that sputtered and choked and belched before roaring to life. However, I only got to ride that with him once before he got rid of it. But, he had numerous pictures of his younger, pre- offspring days, when he got around on all manner of two wheel conveyances. So I saw a lot of him in those men.
What does this have to do with "pseudo round the world travels" I hear you badgering. Well, I always wanted to be like one of those men. I thought their lifestyle, whatever it was, was a proper, manly lifestyle. Certainly manlier than having the big portion of chicken at dinner every night. And having your presence mean the children couldn't make their normal racket they make when you're not around. I saw more vigor and life in my imagination of what a mans life should be, reflected in those gypsy travelling men, than in the everyday banality of tedium lived by my uncles and neighbors and role models. Of course, as an avid reader, this image dovetailed nicely with the exploits of cowboys and sailors and explorers i'd read about in books just a few years prior. These men were just modern day adventurers. And I desperately wanted to be like them.
But, riding a big dirtbike across a continent requires money to buy a big dirt bike, and round the world type dirt bikes generally aren't cheap. Nor is the gas, nor is everything about them. Suddenly the reality of real adult life struck, bills came out of nowhere, and one settled into the daily banality of a regular job, benefits, and the measured joy that a big piece of meat at dinner can give. Thankfully no children to shush and boss around. And after years of this, Honda decided to release a new Africa Twin unto the world, and the promise of my juvenile imaginings, and the excuse of a mid life crisis, begat the Bushpig.
My thoughts whirled with ideas of expeditions and travails, places far off and exotic, negotiating dinner at an outdoor market with sign language and good humor, sunsets and sunrises too beautiful to behold, maps consulted to see if they aligned with signposts in foreign languages. And reality said, you need a big wad of cash to make that happen. Reality said "you already travel, you just don't do it by bike like your twelve year old you would have liked your adult you to." And adult me was content with that. But wanted to see the dream of twelve year old me fulfilled, and to reach back and figuratively give twelve year old me a virtual high five for imagining boring old me as being remotely cool. But how, with the logistics, planning, and costs of world travel by bike nigh impossible, what with me being impulsive, disorganised and somewhat erratic, and responsibility and bills and what not all getting in the way. Adult me remembered that the best mischief is not necessarily breaking the rules, just having fun.
And came to me the revelation, the vision, that surely one could ride the big red pig into Paris. And London. And Johannesburg. Other famous destinations. And make juvenile me happy that indeed I turned out to be the cool adult he hoped to be. Except those capitals would NOT be in France, England or South Africa, but in Kentucky, Texas, and California respectively. And surely more could be found. In fact, one could ostensibly "visit" pretty much all the capitals of the world, states, provinces, countries, simply by staying in the continental United States and being imaginative. One could even go to Hell, literally.
And so began the quest today. Bushpig freshly serviced, day clear of appointments, full tank of gas. Johannesburg beckoned, especially with a Buluwayo Street somewhere in its midst. Bulawayo is my hometown back in Africa. Took off a bit late, after getting raped on the first service (I forsee a motorcycle stand and technical manual in my future. See, it wasn't just juvenile me!!!) and decided to make a good start by visiting California City, since it was sorta on the way, and why not start by going to California? Thoughts came and went, expressions, came and went, big smiles populated the inside of my helmet, occasional smells invaded and the odd stanza from a song would be heard. Up and down the N14. Beyond Edwards Air Force Base the wind really attacked with a ferocity and intensity that made me waver in my determination temporarily, but I was on a quest, a quest to fulfill the dream of a much younger me. And I like to see kids happy.
I turned somewhere to go towards California City and came across the "Graveyard of the Skies" a legendary parking lot filled with airplanes. Just sitting there, not quite abandoned, but certainly not nestled in a hangar, planes whose owners or lease holders couldn't keep flying profitably, but couldn't store economically in a hangar somewhere. I thought of going towards the fence, finding an access road, taking my camera out and documenting my travels but time wasn't on my side and I pressed on. But how to commemorate each place? In my mind I would pose Bushpig by the green sign almost all communities have that announce where you are. Except, I didn't see one, although there was a faded stone sign in the middle of the median that announced "Welcome To California City." Not quite the vibe I was going for, and certainly not going to try wrestling my big heavy, new expensive bike onto the median to take a picture. Stopped for refreshments at Rite Aid and with a looming sunset I took off for Jozi.
Somewhere, I missed a turn, and had to take Lake Isabella highway to get there. And it was spectacular. Entered a National Park who's vistas and rock formations were beautiful. "You're doing it son" i thought, and my inner child gave me a metaphorical high five. "This is why you got this bike. To see this, experience this, feel this." With little traffic on the road I was thankful for the full warranty and Honda engineering, just in case. There were times when, the lighting, the terrain, the rock formations, the flora, made me think I was somewhere in Matebeleland South, on my way to Beitbridge, or coming from Beitbridge, on my way to Bulawayo. At some point I consulted the phone to get a better idea of my bearings and knew that 7 miles hence, Ryan Road would lead to Johannesburg. Come the seven miles and no road. Just more Lake Isabella highway and ... hold on, was that a sign by that dirt road, did it say Ryan Road? I slow down and take off my glove on my left hand, the phone doesn't respond to gloves, and I slowly get ready to pull off the road and check if it was where I was supposed to turn. Trying to multitask, I grab my phone from my back pocket, where Google Maps has been quietly telling my gluteus where I should have been turning, and I pull off the road into the dirt on the side. Disaster strikes.
Loss of traction. Gravity. Unintended revs. Back wheel driving, front wheel stopped. Low friction surface.
SHIT! I hit the "Engine Stop" switch & beseech the gods. I rue not telling anyone where I am going, as I have hardly seen any traffic on this road. And the last I stopped, I had no cell service. SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!!! No use kicking yourself when you're down, so I turn and lift her back up. Thankfully it was in the sand, no oil leaks, no cracks in the crankcase, hopes lifted, fingers mentally crossed. A car drives by, driver slowing to see if they can assist. My pride takes over and i wave her away with a cheery smile. I gracelessly, right her properly, push her onto the road after checking for traffic. I thumb the engine start switch, and she coughs, labouringly. No start. My pride slinks away and I look up to see the lady's Prius disappear around a bend in the distance. Kickstand down, I look again for damage, and seeing nothing, try again. She sputters to life, but sounds different. Oh no! Not even a thousand miles on her. Then, she sounds better, and, then like her normal self. "Ah, the oil had to drain back to the pan."
"It's a dry sump system, there is no oil pan."
"You know what I mean."
I can't be the only one who has conversations with themself.
"OK, you have no dirt experience, have street tires, and a big heavy bike. This Johannesburg thing isn't happening."
"Dude, you're already here. You came for Johannesburg, not 100 meters past the sign for Ryan Road, bike lying in the dirt, with your pride tucking it's tail between it's legs." That seems to settle it. I turn around and head for Ryan Road. As I cross the threshold to the dirt, I splay my feet out, ready to rescue her again, lest she tumble. She ploughs on, happily moving along. "This isn't so bad" runs through my head, and as I think that the front washes out ever so briefly, just as a reminder that things are not as sunny side up as they seem. "Just avoid the sandy parts, ride on the very edge of the road where the soil is more firm." Sure. Except there are rocks protruding out of that hard packed sand. And a flat tire is the last thing I need with no cell service, in the middle of nowhere, well, on Ryan Road, 40 meters from the closest thing to a main road, where nobody can see me.
Reason wins out. I turn her around and make my way back, then continue on Lake Isabella Road. Something isn't right. Besides the normal cacophony of wind and engine noise there is a new sound. And I think I can feel something extra in the seat and pegs. And she's not turning with the poise she did before. It takes a while for me to realise it's the sand on the tires. And corrugations in the road. And my cautious low speed amplifying them. I speed up a little and the suspension soaks up the road. The curves wash off the rest of the soil and soon we're golden. The sun is low in the sky, an open road beckons, a cool wind whistles past my ears. And i'm nearly out of gas. Or more correctly, I have enough gas to probably go 50 miles, but I don't know if i'm going towards a gas station. And there is no traffic anywhere in sight. I slow to maximise my fuel economy. Every house I pass, I look to see if there is someone outside, someone on the patio, anybody I could ask if I am headed towards a gas station. I spy a building with about a dozen cars parked outside, it's a church, maybe they're in choir practise, good Christian people will surely point a stranger towards a gas station. I stop, park, walk towards the building but I can see in it, there is no one inside and no sounds from within. I decide to press on.
At about this point, i'm tired, my butt hurts, i'm probably hangry but don't realise it, and i'm getting concerned about my gas situation. I'm on the last blip, "E" is flashing,
I don't really know how long i've been on it. I slow down and let the "fuel consumption" tick up a little, to make me feel better. I stand to relieve the heat and pressure on my butt. The wind hits me afresh as i glide down the road, the twin rumbling nicely at low rpms. I sit, pressure relieved and the niggling thought returns to the fore; you don't know where you are, you don't know where you're going, you don't know how far the nearest gas station is, you have no cell coverage here. I make an effort to ignore it, but keep stealing glances at the gas gauge. Hope manifests itself as a sign, promising a town, "that's hopeful," a village, "you wish," a settlement, "doesn't really matter, as long as it has a gas station and they take debit cards."
Around the bend a settlement comes into view, some houses, a collection of postboxes at the corner of a dirt road, a large sign promising eats and whatnot, and i'm scanning as far as possible for a gas station. There's a few large - ish buildings but not, ... wait, is that, yes, relief is at hand, it's not cheap but it's modern and I can get off my ass for a few minutes after while I eat. You know you're in the country when there are guns prominently displayed behind the counter and fishing information on a noticeboard adjacent. A whole aisle with knives and rods and other hunting/ camping/ fishing accessories. Sure, the guns are just airsoft and paintball guns but it's a subtle reminder that we're now in the NRA's "polite society." And the people are nice, all jovial, approachable, down to earth, eager to engage in conversation. Several are had, I mention my sore butt several times, i feed on chips, soda, and a bear claw, pre teen me approves, adult me acquiesces because frankly he's just pre teen me in an adults body with a job and some responsibilities.
Both fuelled we set off, Bushpig doing her throbbing, thrumming thing, me taking in the sights. Lake Isabella happens to be right next door, drought in evidence, but dark rippling water visible even in the setting sun. I press ahead as best I can, mindful of our earlier tumble, hoping no sand or leaves are in any of the curves. Past the lake, a river feeds it, and the road winds adjacent, dipping & curving into and out of the sun. I happen to love rivers, especially next to roads, especially when they meander and promise new scenery around every bend. The Kern River doesn't fail there. Its at once serene, then a cauldron of currents surging over rocks, shaded by trees, bare and serene, pools scattered about along the length. As the road winds through the valley, the sun dips behind some of the peaks on the other side, resulting in transitions from low light to bright light happening around every turn, with changing scenery at the river around every curve. This continues for miles and smiles, the road a lovely low speed ribbon winding along the base of a mountain, an ever changing river just beyond the guard rail, plenty of places to stop and take it all in. Confidence grows, curves are taken less timidly, trust has developed between rider and steed until the big Police SUVs headlights are suddenly in my mirrors. "Was I speeding? Did I remember to put on my plates? Will my phone retrieve my insurance information? Am I going to be another Sandra Bland right fucking here?" I spot a turnout and edge to the right and wave him by. He speeds past, followed by a Ford pickup.
I'm nervous now, gripping the bars too tightly, approaching corners incorrectly, braking too late and applying too much throttle to maintain momentum, just when i'm in the curve. this last, of course, upsetting the line, resulting in ceasing throttle, upsetting the line further. I coax myself into relaxing, just as the road opens up and the road diverges from the rivers side. A sign promising the haven of Bakersfield, yes, i know it ain't, looms and flashes by. At least I know, sort of, where I am. I debate stopping in Bakersfield, but it's 100 miles from there to home and I haven't even arrived there yet, and that means i'll be getting home at 2230 hours, for approximately 8 hours in the saddle. I need to get home, no more delays. my brother might be worrying about me. I power onto the south 99, headed home at last, and endure a swarm of insects just as i'm about to stand to relive the nether regions again. No use adding more bugs to your jacket, so I stay seated and accelerate. Home beckons.
Somewhere on the Kern County side of the Grapevine, the long mountain pass separating north Los Angeles County from the central valley, the incessant thrumming and inexorable progress of our journey has me imagining that this must what the Terminator felt like. No matter the road, no matter the grade, no matter the circumstance, our progress would not be hindered, we would achieve our destination, we would fulfil our mission. The machine felt indefatigable, relentless, unstoppable. My ass, ... not so much. Up on the pegs at 80 mph, going uphill in the dark, wind whistling past my helmet. Thankful for the principles of ATGATT (All The Gear, All The Time) ingrained into me. My long sleeve compression shirt and rugby jersey were now layers insulating me slightly from the evening chill, the jacket taking most of the bite out of the elements.
Over the hill and it's almost all downhill from here. Home is only 30 minutes now. Civilisation is heralded by streetlights, residences, mini malls, people walking their dogs in the suburbs just off the freeway. the long slog home seems to take no time. Suddenly it's my exit, my road, my local supermarket. I don't need gas but I stop to fill her up; i'm tracking my fuel economy. 54.8 mpg. With significant portions of that doing 80 going uphill, and going down. I'd be lucky to get 20 in my car at those speeds. For that long.
Parked, i turn her off, dismount, joints aching in protest. I take a few stiff steps and stop to look back at and appreciate this amazing machine, that's given me joy, pain, smiles, independence, purpose, relief, fullness. She sits in the dull yellow glow of a halide lamp, emotionless, a big red beast ready to go again should I want. My inner child approves.
Didn't get to Johannesburg. Didn't go on Buluwayo Road. Didn't even take a picture.
But, I think I will recreate that day just to take pictures. And to go to Johannesburg. And to see the sights again.
Way to grab it by the brass ones.
An academy buddy of mine had his Victory Cross Country's clutch cable snap on him while on a charity ride. His bike has 12,000 miles on it, and he says that he lubed it every 2,000 miles. Fortunately, he was only around 15 miles from home, not 150+.
Now the Victory hydraulic clutch conversion is looking a lot more appealing to him ($350 for the parts and probably 2-3 hours of labor). It's the same parts that the Victory Vision gets from the factory, so it should work just fine.
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