Attempting To Reach Eclipse/COTA

[whatarush]

Great trip oldironnow, thanks for taking us along

[whatarush]

Here’s a video of cota from the onboard camera’s. A lot of paint swapping in this one

https://youtu.be/ECqAmAtBPW0?si=Sx7iVi5cEVd-gASG

[Fatfatboy]

Thanks for that. That one needs to be watched on the big screen.

[Fatfatboy]

OINOW, For your next trip maybe a Wing Ebago.

 https://youtu.be/RX5i_swivTU?si=McekYrgy1FAr9lhU

[hacksaw]

Good Lord! 😬

[oldironnow]

I have dreamed of such solutions
But I’m not sure I could tolerate those takes.

[oldironnow]

whatarush wrote

Great trip oldironnow, thanks for taking us along

[oldironnow]

Out from the windmills and through the small city of Tehachapi that clings along the summit valley of Highway 58 like an arterial aneurism.
Over the edge, and we start our descent into the Big Valley. Forward, distant fields into haze of the valley. Over the cliff along the slow lane, glimpses of Union Pacific’s tracks, sinuous as a racetrack, part of the historic Tehachapi Loop. 36 frieght trains grind slowly through it to the east everyday. One every 40 minutes. And that’s how long it takes to finally bump into I-5.
I-5… the great MadMax freeway.
Void of scenery. As detailed as a Flintstones cartoon background. Barely patrolled. The ethic is to go as fast as possible to relativistically compress time on the run between LA and SF. Or Portland. Or Seattle. Or Inuvik. I would never be surprised to see a tanker being chased by a hoard of heathens.
I can do the math now.
Three prudent fuelings between here and home.
Almost certainly the tire makes it. Now it’s down to the pilot.
It 1pm. Been into this leg for 30 hours. Decide to rehydrate some breakfast in the parking lot.




.

[oldironnow]

In the shade of a gas station sign, I writhe the leather jacket off in the heat and disgorge from Ratana’s bags the cooking and chain maintenance gear onto the pavement.
Instantly, an older Asian man walks over from his car and offers a Red Bull. I say “hey what’s up, man!” But he wordlessly smiles and repeatedly pushes the can at me. Getting the message, I receive his gift and gestured blessing.
A rider with patches burbles behind towards the pumps. Perfect injection and pipe setup; crisp, full, not overly loud… distinguished.
I’m squatting on my haunches by the bike, focused on slowly spooning a bag of Breakfast Scramble up to my face.
Another Harley comes in and the rider walks over. “Do you need a hand?”
“Why?”
“You look… broken down. I have tools.”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess it does. No I’m just doing chain maintenance.”
“Are you going to the biker rally?”
“No - going home from Austin. Are you going to the rally?”
“No. Bay Area, for a robotics competition. That’s why I have my tools.”
“Ah. Cool. Good hunting.”
The shade from the sign has completely moved away from this camp; time to go.
Less physically shaky via food, water and Red Bull (bless you, too, my friend). We go.
The plan is set.
The way is set.
And, we shove off.
Out onto I-5 for a few exits. Staying out of the way. Sparring with a knob in a full-tinted car of some-sort who forces their way in right behind me and the dude tailgating my rear. Between the overly hesitant and insanely rude, lies the narrow middle ground of alacritous compassion. A small roll-off of the throttle, WTF hand gesture, and then moving over when clear, another sarcastic ‘after you, mf-er…’ sweep of the arm.
Off the interstate at Buttonwillow Raceway’s off ramp and onto Highway 33 - the west valley road that progress forgot. The opposite of Five’s linear monotony, 33 lies on the floor of the valley like a broken strand of pearls, good Two-lane spastically jiggy-jogging from Ojai to Tracy. Pick your speed. Avoid the crowds. Look at the Almond trees. The oil pumping. The dry grass fields.
Stop in Coalinga. So hot and so tired. Independent gas station has an independent cheeseburger. The fatigue is so strong, coffee is consumed at every stop, along with a giant ice water poured into me and the helmet.
A tall old man who speaks in a whisper wants to know what kind of bike I have. He says Suzuki is a good bike. He rode them all, he says. “I was state motocross champion in 1988. They called me The Snake. My name’s Gary, but my brother said I raced like this (makes a snaky motion with his hand) so everyone calls me The Snake.”
The date doesn’t seem to jibe for this frail and unsteady elder, but he offers that he was born in 1958, so we’re of the same era. He says he suffered some kind of an accident. Wishes he could ride again. I give him my fries and ask him for his memories of the Coalinga Earthquake. He says he was driving south of town and thought his car was broken.
“Hey Snake, I’ve got to hit it. Which way to 198?”
“You go left at the sign, and right at the light, and then straight on.”
Almost a perfect Springsteen quote.
“Thanks, Snake. Be well.”
“Thanks for the fries!”

[oldironnow]

Highway 198 is like beer: God loves us.
I bet i have less than 10 passes through here, but each time it is pure splendor, and this is no different.
Three-dimensional road goodness.
Undulating and curving, often at the same time.
Almost consistently smooth.
In these busy times, there’s no reason to be on this road.
I meet six cars and ten motorcycles. Standing on the pegs for the motorcyclists, clutch hand out-stretched to wave. They look a little hesitant each time with their standard down-pointing bro-wave losing its chill, controlled simplicity. ‘what… is.. he.. doing..”
Today, though, I have to ride like a newb.
Very fuzzy.
A few times, my anticipation is completely wrong. I’ve set up and committed to a shadowed gravel road or completely misjudged where the road would go on the other side of a hill.
Willfully, i get very deliberate and literal. Feeling the joy of the green valley and freedom in it. The curves help with the fatigue, diverting focus outside the body, but the eyes seek the odometer to grind out the distance math.
198 traverses several valleys on its way to the junction at Hwy 25. The views get better until I have to stop. And look.
A sky and landscape to fall into…









.

[oldironnow]

The Valley of Hwy25 is the cradle of the fissure known as the San Andreas Fault, and Ratana and I enter this zone, criss-crossing from North American to Pacific plates as we roll north to Hollister on the path the ranchers and vaqueros chose decades ago.

There is one stop for photographs.



One check up for a hungry and suicidal vulture.
The last stop for fuel.



Twenty minutes in Hollister with in-laws unseen for a year.
35 hours since Deming, NM.

And then through the ever-cooler ocean-sourced air.
Over to my city, my neighborhood, my street.
Trolling. Waving at the neighbors.
My driveway. Tipping in.
Nearly getting hit because I don’t look over my shoulder.

[hacksaw]

War and Peace!

[oldironnow]

hacksaw wrote

War and Peace!

I appreciate my loyal reader. Something to help you sleep. 🥱

[Fatfatboy]

Thank Oldironnow for taking me along your trip. I really appreciate the naming of towns and highways. It gave me a chance to follow your route.

There has been times that I was in the same paths but on different times and roads. You brought back memories of similar rides I had been on in the past. Things I had forgotten.
The pushin on rides. Myself and old riding buddy that was with me on so many of those rides called it “Mission ride.” Because after playing around for about a week going from one planned location to another and then going off planned paths because another local or rider told of a great route or something that we can’t miss while in the area. Then it became a Mission Ride. On a mission to get home. Riding in downpours when the only thing guiding us is the red lights of the vehicle in front. Riding all night slamming large gas station burnt coffee to get us through the next tank of gas.
Feeling completely exhausted and at times miserable and wanting of this damn bike that a day ago was our magic machine taking us to the Grand Canyon, Pikes Peak, Sturgis, Four Corners, Upper Peninsula, or some other great place.

But all that struggle and misery goes completely away when you land in your driveway, get a hot shower, a good defecation on your own throne, then plopping down in my own bed thinking about the great places I saw and people met in Small Town USA.

Gosh I miss it.

[hacksaw]

😴

oldironnow wrote

hacksaw wrote

War and Peace!

I appreciate my loyal reader. Something to help you sleep. 🥱

It worked.

[oldironnow]

Fatfatboy wrote

Thank Oldironnow for taking me along your trip. I really appreciate the naming of towns and highways. It gave me a chance to follow your route.

There has been times that I was in the same paths but on different times and roads. You brought back memories of similar rides I had been on in the past. Things I had forgotten.
The pushin on rides. Myself and old riding buddy that was with me on so many of those rides called it “Mission ride.” Because after playing around for about a week going from one planned location to another and then going off planned paths because another local or rider told of a great route or something that we can’t miss while in the area. Then it became a Mission Ride. On a mission to get home. Riding in downpours when the only thing guiding us is the red lights of the vehicle in front. Riding all night slamming large gas station burnt coffee to get us through the next tank of gas.
Feeling completely exhausted and at times miserable and wanting of this damn bike that a day ago was our magic machine taking us to the Grand Canyon, Pikes Peak, Sturgis, Four Corners, Upper Peninsula, or some other great place.

But all that struggle and misery goes completely away when you land in your driveway, get a hot shower, a good defecation on your own throne, then plopping down in my own bed thinking about the great places I saw and people met in Small Town USA.

Gosh I miss it.

YES !
YES !
That’s it !
Both then and now -
Like Motogrady riding to Unidallia.
The level of ‘can I get away with this ??’
Do I have the stamina?
Can one still live a little like Jim Bronson in a world that many feel is more fit for a Charles Bronson character?
The different people you meet who help you put old eyes on a new place, or get a new vision of an old place.

My people both cheer and question this habit.
But I like being committed in my own way to this life.
I like to describe it as horizontal mountain climbing.


.

[Fatfatboy]

I really like this one.

[Fatfatboy]

 “I like to describe it as horizontal mountain climbing. “

Perfect.

[oldironnow]

Fatfatboy wrote

I really like this one.

It stopped me in my tracks.
The clouds and the valleys.
Made me want to casually fly off into the scene.

[grado]

Agreed. Great pic.

http://cyclevisor-com.339.s1.nabble.com/file/n11300/IMG_8190.jpeg