When Troubles Come…

Well I’ve got a bit more time now, so let’s do more than just dump some photos in here with little context. The short story is I decided to ride north to the Lost Coast, and area I’ve been by many times but never explored. Fate intervened again and I ended up in the Los Angeles instead. Such is fate. I left San Francisco and was plenty happy to stay on the coast and enjoy cool weather, which is almost the only weather I’ve experienced this entire summer…even as I crossed the wastes of Utah and Nevada.

Here is a view of the SF Bay from the vista point at the northern end of the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s a sad place for me, despite the panorama.

I went up and over Mt. Tamalpais and down onto Hwy 1, taking the detour down to Point Reyes. I have only been down to the point one other time, and did not know there was a cemetery for people who died while working at the Life Saving station there around the turn of the 20th Century.

The old radio station at Point Reyes has a wonderful tunnel of trees leading up to it.

Up the coast, past some Redwoods, some coastal towns, and overnight on the dunes in Bodega Bay. North again to Fort Bragg to another State Beach. I got quite lucky on that stretch because there were some one-lane sections. The people running traffic through those zones let motorcycles head up to the front of the line, and you would end up with a wide open road for so long, it was surreal.

I flowed with the road, which flows with the dramatic coastal terrain. I could take some sections quickly, or slow down and absorb the view, the sea air, and the coastal Redwoods.

The world hands you these moments from time to time, and the thing I’ve learned it to experience them fully while they’re happening. That has done me well during times in my life when it was a cascade of failures and difficulty. However, it bit back this time.

While heading to the Lost Coast from Fort Bragg, I was totally in the zone. The bike was fully loaded but a nice, smooth hand on the controls meant I could hustle along through the late morning fog. When you, a motorcycle, and a road are in sync, the rest of the world falls away, but you can also feel the hyper-awareness. The trees and birds were there and a part of me, and I a part of them. The asphalt was communicating it’s flow and each bump and undulation. The bike…wait a second…what is that wiggle coming from the back of the bike?

It’s probably just the heavy luggage moving a little as I flick left and right. Right? Well, I need fuel, so I can check the straps when I stop in a few miles. Fortunately, it wasn’t until I had slowed down the near walking speed that it happened: the rear tire locked. Something had gotten in there. A strap? I dragged the bike to the shoulder and was horrified to see a wheel spoke wrapped around my rear wheel!

It wasn’t the only broken spoke either. There were six broken spokes, nearly all in the same spot. That is enough of a failure to compromise the structural integrity. It was also enough of a failure that you didn’t just want to take this to a motorcycle shop. Straightening a spoke wheel is part a technical skill and part art. You don’t get good at it by reading a book and trying once. Most shops also don’t carry spokes. My wheel was a custom build, so I needed an expert.

Phone calls are quickly made, and it’s determined to limp the bike on the highway down to Los Angeles. The higher speed of the highway meant bumps would transmit more force, but at the same time it also means fewer curves and therefore less side-load on the wheel. I also put up a post or two to see if outside help was available. I got information about an old-school expert in the SF Bay, but a phone call showed him to be closed up for the Labor Day weekend, even though he would be in the shop on Monday.

My biggest problem was a place to stay. Practically everyone I know has fled the Bay area, campgrounds were full due to the holiday, and motels or AirBnB’s were prohibitively expensive. But down in Los Angeles, I have several friends, and a shop called Buchanan’s Spoke & Rim, who are the go-to people for spoked rims. They have the machinery to make their own spokes. They have the specs to build, rebuild, or modify custom rims, and I’ve dealt with them in the pass.

I also have a friend who lives about twenty minutes from their shop.

Fate intervened in the most improbable way and definitely made this my only option. My friend Susan had purchased a motorcycle in Fairfax, which is where I was finally forced to stop after even more spokes broke on my ride south. I was in need of either a tow down to LA or, perhaps I could ride here new bike down to her with my wheel strapped to the back?

The end result wash Susan driving up, us getting a U-haul trailer, and her riding her new bike home while I used her car to tow my bike down to LA. Buchanan’s was actually closed for the week, but Susan had Kennie Buchanan’s number and we found out he was going to be in the shop working on his own stuff. Poof: the road provides.

The fix took Kennie about two hours. He determined the spokes used to build the wheel were a thinner gauge than necessary; something you might use for motocross racing but not for a dual sport bike out on the trail. So he rebuilt the wheel with heavier spokes, and the adjuster nipples were replaced with stainless steel instead of aluminum.

The result is a wheel that’s better than when I left on my trip. I also used the downtime to do maintenance on the bike. I checked the valve clearances, changed spark plugs, cleaned the air filter, and generally put the bike in ready-to-ride shape. Since I’m in the same place for awhile it also means online shopping: restoring damaged or worn out items.

I also used the time to finally visit the Huntington Library and Botanical Gardens. It is broken down by geographical region and as you might expect, the Japanese and Chinese gardens were the real stand out, simply because they really know how to do a garden in those countries. I also enjoyed the desert garden and Australian section though.

I also geeked out on the library, since the art galleries were closed. They have a copy of the Gutenberg Bible there, books owned by Isaac Newton, documents from the 1000’s, and even some original Edison lightbulbs.

One other stop was down in Santa Ana, next to my home town. I decided I didn’t need to visit the city I was born in and just swung in to the HQ of Nelson-Rigg, who make my saddlebags. Some stitching had failed, and the bags had been redesigned with a different stitching, so they simply replaced the bags instead of repairing mine. Kyle was a nice guy and even installed the bags for me, showing me a few tricks to keep them securely fastened.

So, new wheel, fresh maintenance, new saddlebags…I’m in a better spot than when these problems first came up. Attitude and a spirit of perseverance go a long way when adversity comes knocking. It does look like I’ll miss the Reno Air Races though. The many unexpected costs from the motorcycle, combined with costs of my cat being sick, mean I’m probably better off skipping the races anyway.

I’m okay with it, and need to focus on making some money as well as spending less. Once advantage is that I’m in California, where as a disabled veteran I can camp for free at State campgrounds. If I can find one that is open and also has power hook ups I can hole up and let my credit cards cool down. Even if I can’t find a site with power, I just need a campground with a shower and a nearby town where I can plug in and get free wifi.

And so that’s where I’m at for now. Afterwards, do I return to see some of Colorado before weather moves in at the higher elevations? Do I wander California’s coast and mountain ranges? Perhaps back to Mexico? Having too many choices is a better problem than having too few. And on that note I’ll leave you with a few pictures that didn’t make it into this story.

While in Oakland, I stopped at the memorial to the Jonestown Massacre. Of the 900-plus victims, over 400 bodies were never claimed and are in a mass grave.

In the same cemetery, by coincidence, are several graves of members of the Oakland Hells Angels.

Redwood City has a memorial to Union soldiers in a pioneer cemetery that saw burials from 1859 to 1969.

I was able to visit with my long-time friend Dick, aka Mr. Head, while down in Santa Ana getting my saddlebags replaced.

Bodega Bay views.