A FOOLS FOLLY

(The Saga of how I survived 2500 miles on Route 66 riding a 1971 Thunderbolt.)

There is a fine line between inspiration and insanity, depending on what side of the line your own coin falls goes a long way to define the reality of the concept. I found myself toeing this line when the Southern California Norton Owners Club put forward the idea of riding the breadth of Route 66 from St Louis to Los Angeles. The seed for this trip was planted during the Norton Club’s Arizona ride in 2011, while having dinner in the Andy Devine room in Kingman Arizona. You have to know and understand the spirit under which this concept was put forward. We had just completed a successful day’s ride at ticket eliciting speeds. The group was armed with bravado and maybe fueled by a few too many beers. To say the least, once on the table no one would be able to back out and still retain his dignity. In addition, there is something about Route 66 that touches the heart of Bib, the leader of the SCNOC. A dream from his youth maybe, which a man embraces as he comes to the realization that he will being seeing fewer sunrises in the future. As a Scandinavian and part Southerner I understand this, there is a point where a man must face his own fate. By early 2012, it was no longer an idea and the planning was in full progress. The details were set:

a. We would have our bikes trucked out to St Louis Missouri as the starting point. b. The bike should be 1979 or earlier and British! c. We would be on the road approximately 11 days. d. Group would be limited to 35 riders with a buy in of $300. e. Start date was the first week of September. f. We would be riding on as much of the original Route 66 as possible.

As this was an adventure of a lifetime, I ponied up the money and now was the time for preparation, negotiation, and decision. Little was I to know that the adventure or should I say misadventure would start before I had even driven one mile on the Mother Road. To be honest I really did not want to take my 1971 Thunderbolt. It is an amazing bike on roads that go right and left, but put it on a straight road and you will be hating life very soon. My initial choice was to take my 1969 CB350 Honda but I was getting a good deal of resistance from both Bib and my fellow members in the SCNOC. With this in mind, I kept pestering Bib to let me take the Honda and by June, he pulled me aside and gave his blessing. This did not stop the peer pressure from the other members so I started to prepare in parallel both machines.

Preparation

The Honda was easy, new oil, plugs, check the timing, check the valve clearance, new chain, and new rear tire......done! I love British bikes, they have character, but there is a reason that Honda won out in the end. The BSA was a completely different animal. To start I have to digress to what had been an issue since I restored the machine a couple of years ago. The A65 is a problematic machine as it is a short stroke motor that makes in power with RPM and at power; it is a vibratory machine of no redoubt! When I picked out the A65 as a bike, I wanted I was looking for an Oil in Frame Thunderbolt. It is tall enough for my 6’ 4” frame, reasonably affordable, and with one carburetor eliminates the possibility of vibration from miss-matched carb. settings. After a few months of riding the machine I then decided to do the “Boyer” upgrade. The main reason for this was again the cursed vibration of the A65 engine. For anyone who has timed an A65 at full advance with the bike wiggling its way across your garage trying to get both sets of points to the exact point of perfection involves skill, luck, voodoo chants, and pacts with Lucifer himself! Once again, miss matched firing equal’s vibration. The beauty of the Boyer is that it constantly fires so if you get one cylinder right, then the opposite cylinder is set too. I have installed Boyers in many machines and have never had an issue, but the new Mark IV was a completely different thing. After the upgrade, I rode the bike for a few weeks and then suddenly at a stoplight the engine quit with no warning. I had heard of Boyers doing this, in essence failing out of the box, so after trucking the bike home I was off to Keith Moore to get a replacement. With the new brain in (stator checked okay), I then rode the bike for a few weeks and again at a stoplight, the bike died! I was perplexed to say the least, I went thru the entire loom, checked all grounds, checked light bulbs for discoloration, finding nothing wrong; I had to assume there was an issue in the Zener/Rectifier. Back off to Moore’s again, to commiserate with Keith, see if I missed something, get a new unit, and purchase one of Boyer’s Power Boxes. After the conversion to the Power Box and installing of the new ignition unit, I figured I was out of the dark! Nevertheless, this was not to last, after another few weeks, pulling up to a stop the bike died again! I was completely perplexed and going back to Keith to seek guidance, forgiveness, and new parts! This time Keith did have some new information. Evidently the new Mark IV units which are designed to work at lower voltages are susceptible to failure with high output alternators. This was found out in some means by my own experience and lobbying for answers. Believe me at this point I was ready to chuck it all and go back to points, but as they say in for a penny in for a pound! Therefore, with no good deed going unpunished I left with a new Power Box, Mark IV ignition system, and a new 10A Wassel alternator stator. There was a ride coming up and so in a somewhat angry mood, I installed all the new parts that evening. It is funny but as in all hurried and angry repairs this night would come back to haunt me! Now the ignition was working perfectly over several months, but I had to constantly recharge the battery that I attributed to my lower amperage stator. So here, I was faced with the choice of an extremely reliable bike with no known issues or a bike that had issues, was ill suited to the ride, but met with all of the criteria of the spirit of the event. The deciding factor came down to that old devil, peer pressure.

Therefore, as my parents had warned, I jumped off the cliff with the rest of my friends and chose the BSA. Now came the long laundry list of what I wanted to do to get my Thunderbolt ready: New sealed cell battery, new alternator stator just in case, new tires, new primary chain, new clutch drive plates, new clutch springs, a 22 tooth front sprocket, new drive chain, new oil pressure switch, and a bunch of misc. valve train hardware. Once all this was installed I still had to fettle a bit with the set up as the oversize sprocket required the chain to be nuts on or it would clank against the case. In addition, the sprocket made zero difference with the comfort of the bike in fourth gear! With the basics out of the way, I had made the decision to do some really wrong things to the Thunderbolt. Think of the decade of its manufacture and of the J.C. Whitney Catalogue. I envisioned a period touring machine with a clear fairing, highway bars, and seat modification. Meier had the fairing on clearance for $85 and with the addition of a frontal wing deflector was the answer to wind/bug issues. Then off to the hardware store for some aluminum square tubing, u-bolts, rubber coating, and H/V shrink tubing for my highway bar fabrication. Then finally, a massive cruiser style gel pad to replace the ubiquitous king/queen seat of the era. Once all were installed and adjusted, I went down to the local Starbucks, which is the local bikers haunt. When the local Harley riders loudly approved my modifications, I knew I had got it right in the worst sort of way! In private, I would apologize to this fine British roadster, but at this point, I was only thinking of my own survival. The other aside from this crowd was divided into two comments, “Wow what an adventure I sure am jealous”, and “Are you crazy?” With a few short test rides, the bike was ready for the drop off in Pasadena in preparation for shipping to St Louis. The Drop Off

There was no way I could have anticipated how hard it was going to be just to get my Thunderbolt to the arranged drop off point. In days past, I had a pickup truck which made things easy. Presently all I had was a VW Jetta I had taken over from one of my daughters (another long story). I decided to add a hitch, which was a snap go down to U-Haul and an hour later voila! Then I decided to get a handy dandy single wheel tow chock that slipped right in the receiver. So the Saturday of the weekend for drop off (last weekend of August), starting early I put the bike in the device and started to head to Pasadena. I hadn’t gotten out of my complex before the Bike almost fell out of the hitch and looking at the results I knew I couldn’t rely on this set up to get to Pasadena. In retrospect, I should have known better, this truly was a Rube Goldberg device and my gullibility in buying it puts me right in line for every nefarious fraud that has ever been hatched. It was time for Plan B, get the bike off the hitch, remove the device, and go back to U-Haul to rent a small trailer. Once at U-Haul I had to get a lighting kit installed for the trailer and after a couple of hours I was on the road with Bike in the trailer. I sighed and thought that now I was set and started the trek from Huntington Beach to Pasadena. Suddenly in Santa Fe Springs while driving up the 605 Freeway the car started running funny. I pulled off on Telegraph road and started to check the car out. Starting with the new wiring loom for the trailer lights, I disconnected them with no effect. The problem was the battery was low on charging. I then called AAA to get a quick charge and started to check fuses, wiring, etc. When AA arrived, the driver found the car wasn’t charging, checking the fusible link for the alternation I found it was fried! As I was prepared for

issues, I pulled some bailing wire from my spares kit and wound it around the link’s terminals, turned the key, and watched in amazement as the bailing wire turned red and melted! Therefore, with no alternator and no way to get the whole mess towed, I had the tech give it a quick charge and started back home. The car made it as far as Spring Street in Los Alamitos before it ran out of juice. Another call to AAA, another bump, and I made it to within a block an Auto Zone. Again prepared with tools for the road, which I’d stowed in the bike’s tail bag I removed the battery and walked it the block to Auto Zone, by the way did I forget to mention it was about 90 degrees outside? Another hour down to get the battery fully charged and I trekked back to the car and was able to get both it and the trailer back to their respective homes. Fortunately, I still had the following day to get the bike dropped off and went to Plan C. So doing what I should have done from the start I went to U-Haul, rented a pickup truck, loaded the bike, and successfully got the bike to Bib in good old Pasadena! On the way home I was thinking, well that was about a $500 lesson and without riding a single mile the ordeal had already started.

My trusty A65T ready to ship to St Louis, note the fairing, highway bars, and gel seat!

St Louis – Day - Zero

September 6, 2012, the day had finally arrived. My son dropped me off at Long Beach Airport to catch my flight. After a pleasant hop to Phoenix, I caught up with my dearest (riding) friend, Tony Stefani, for the last leg to St Louis. Another easy flight and we were on the ground in St Louis. It was muggy and hot, but after a short cab ride from the airport, we arrived at our base of operations in St Louis, the Hotel Ignacio.

When Bib picked this as our place to stay, he definitely picked a winner. The hotel itself had a postmodern industrial vibe and was very upscale, but that was just the start! As you walked thru the lobby, if you turned right there was a KTM/Ducati/Triumph dealer, if you turned left there was a motorcycle themed restaurant with full service bar, and if you continued thru the restaurant you walked right into a very nice motorcycle museum! Everything was top notch a motorcyclists dream right here on earth. After a quick check-in, we dropped off our bags and started to explore the digs. The first surprise was to see all of our bikes proudly displayed in the auditorium of the museum. They had done a great job of off loading and arranging the bikes in preparation for the launch of our journey. After insuring that my baby was safe and ready to go, we had a wonderful diner and some lively libations on the property. The restaurant here is named Triumph (appropriately) using the logo of the German Triumph make and has some neat motorcycling touches, like a wall made up of a montage of old instruments, posters from the Golden Age of cycling, and the overhead lighting that used old headlight buckets. Looking outside it was raining and as this was day zero, we made the wise choice to call it an early night

My museum quality ’71 A65T in the company of numerous Nortons and Triumphs. St Louis – Day - One

Day one was to be one of our “easy” days and looking outside the rain had stopped, a very good sign indeed! The first order of business was to get our machines out of the museum to prepare them for a short afternoon ride. Knowing my bike’s Achilles Heel, I had left it on a trickle charge over night. I then did a quick inventory of my tail bag, Craftsman tool kit – check, spare coils – check, spare Boyer – check, spare Sparx power box – check, spare hardware - check , 30ml fuel bottles, spark plugs , bailing wire, connectors, crimper, rain suit, can of Fix-A-Flat, check, check, and double check! I’ve been down this road before (though much shorter), I wanted to be prepared for as much as was humanly possible. First order was to get gas as we had shipped the bikes out as empty as possible per instructions from the trucking company. My friends Tony, Kevin N., and I, got some dubious directions to the nearest gas station and after about five minutes we were lost and just hoping to run across one. I was already on reserve and a bit nervous, but had faith that one would cross our path at any minute. Then the dreaded sputter, sputter, and stop came. I had cut it too close and was out of gas! Tony and Kevin grabbed my fuel bottles and continued their search for petrol; in the mean time, I had the joy of sitting in steamy hot weather entertaining the scraggly denizens of a not so nice neighborhood. After a half hour or so, it was all resolved and with a full tank (and fuel bottles), we headed back to the hotel. Of course, on our way back we passed the gas station that was two blocks from the hotel, and one right turn off from our directions.

Even now, the gremlins were in full effect, as Kevin N. had found one of his foot peg rubbers had broken in two! I would have never thought of this, but St Louis is a classic motorcycle town. In short order we had been told of a dealer in near by St Ann’s that had a good stock of spare parts for old Triumph motorcycles. As our scheduled afternoon ride was a couple of hours away, Kevin, Tony, and I took off to get the part. It was decided in the sake of brevity to take the Freeway (ugh), and soon I was in the dust of Tony’s Norton and Kevin’s extremely modified, T140 Triumph. I knew somewhat where we were going and was just taking my time. Uttering what was to be my somewhat Pyrrhic mantra, “It’s a marathon, not a sprint”. Suddenly the engine cut off completely and I was able to coast off the freeway. Crap, dead in the water for the second time! Fortunately, I quickly diagnosed the problem as a broken connector right at the battery and ten minutes later in the sweltering Missouri heat a new connector was installed and I was back on the road. Shortly I caught up with my friends at the targeted motorcycle shop, Donelson Cycles. This is the kind of shop we all wish was at our corner! It is a new Honda, Triumph, and Ducati dealer, with a full line of accessories, a well-stocked classic bike parts inventory, and an amazing museum attached! It is well worth a stop by if you are ever in the area. After a tour of the location and with needed parts in hand, we had an uneventful ride back to our hotel. We arrived just in time for our scheduled ride through the part of “66” that is in downtown St Louis with an end point of the world famous Arch. It was a short ride and after getting lost a couple of times, we arrived at the banks of the muddy Mississippi and the Arch. I can only say that between the two my heart was touched by what can only be stated as an age-old pride in the great adventure known as America.

The Gateway Arch, Spectacular!

Me and my trusty BSA Thunderbolt by the Big Muddy.

As the sky was threatening rain, we only dallied enough for a glass of lemonade and beat feet back to our hotel. As a funny aside, as we were in route we passed Bib and a group of riders heading on a tangent to god knows where, and most likely a bit lost. With the bikes safely parked for the evening it was time for a quick dinner and a good nights sleep as the real riding was to start in earnest the following morning.

Missouri – Day - Two

This was to be our first hard day of riding, with a projected route of over 300 miles. As we gathered our bikes to start in the wee hours of the morning, I was filled with both dread and anticipation. The storm of the last few days had finally cleared out and the weather was wonderfully mild. That did not stop me from the worries of knowing I had already had two minor incidents that had stopped me and I could only hope that there would be no more to come. I knew that as one of two BSA’s on the ride I was high on the dead-pool for the group of bikes to be non-finishers. At this point, I would like to digress a bit with a couple of observations. To ride an older British motorcycle is be in a truly love/hate relationship with life. When they are running in fine fettle, there is no better experience in the world. However, always in the back of your mind, you know you are on a 40-year-old machine, and that this state of perfection is only a moment away from disaster. Extrapolate that to 2500 miles and multiple days of continuous riding and you can only pray to the gods that the disaster will be delayed for sometime after this trip. On top of this, you are riding with the Southern California Norton Owners Club (SCNOC). The SCNOC is not Motorcycling 101, it’s advanced riding at its ultimate iteration. There is a basic cadre of members/riders, most are accomplished high-speed riders, some have professional race pedigrees, many are professional mechanics, most are accomplished restorers, and virtually all are still boys at heart. Most rides are not the restrained formation rides that most groups ascribe to, but instead each launch is akin to Schrödinger’s cat on crystal meth. An explosion of chaos of mythical proportions. What this translates to, is that my telling of the ride and the actual ride itself will be different then anyone else’s. On this ride as with most, I was accompanied by various iterations of MY cadre of riding friends, Tony, Mitch, Paul, and the newbie of the group Brendan. With this said I now return to the story. The day started out with bad news/good news, Bib had decided to skip the portion of 66 that went thru the St Louis area (he grumbled that there were too many stoplights) in favor of the freeway, but before we hit the freeway we were going to make a quick stop at Michaels, another classic bike entity in St Louis. So after a quick sprint thru urban St Louis we arrived at Michaels. Again, I was taken aback by the wealth of the classic bike scene here in the Gateway City to the West. Michaels had an amazing variety of bikes on display for sale and a busy service department. It also has an espresso bar where the group was regaled with coffee and pastries in preparation for our launch. With the group filled with these treats, it was a quick spin and we were on the I44 heading to Stanton. a fifty-mile trek. I cannot stress how ill equipped a BSA A65 is for Freeway riding and after a few miles of trying to keep up with the pack, I settled into a pace that would hopefully keep the bike and myself in one piece. The group stopped at for gas at the off ramp (you never pass a gas station with a 3 gallon tank) and it was here that my friends voted to deviate slightly from the rest of the group. Stanton is home to the Meramec Caverns a wonderful holdover attraction from the glory days of 66. With Paul, Mitch, Brendan, Tony and myself in tow we headed off to the Caverns. The short trip off the main route was an enjoyable little tree shaded road along a river that ended in the parking lot for the Caverns.

My friend Tony doing some quick maintenance in the Meramec Cavern Parking lot

We all decided to take the tour and it was a wonderful piece of kitschy Americana. The Caverns themselves were spectacular and the supporting guide was a real hoot. I would highly recommend it to anyone who finds himself or herself in this region. In addition, I got more than an unexpected surprise during our tour. There was an attractive woman taking tour by herself, who I was drawn to due to her height. I’m 6’4” inches tall and she was easily my height. We got to talking and this woman, Jessica had an interesting story of heading across the country in and RV following 66 and then heading to her final destination of San Diego. As I live in Huntington Beach, which is just a hop, skip and jump from San Diego, I gave her my phone number to look me up when she got settled. We bade our farewells and quick hug I caught up with the rest of the gang at the gift shop. After the obligatory purchasing of trinkets and post cards, we were ready to hit the road. It was in the parking lot that I then got my next surprise, My best riding buddy, Tony, told me Mitch was ticked off that I had some how jumped in his place to gain Jessica’s attention, to which Tony assuaged Mitch by assuring him it was no loss. Some how, in the darkness of the Caverns, neither Mitch nor I had seen that Jessica had an Adams Apple! Yes on the outset of our adventure, I was the only one to claim that I had picked up a Transvestite in a Cavern, in Missouri! From here, we rejoined the real Route 66 and had several hours of wonderful riding thru the rolling green of south-central Missouri. This was one of my favorite segments of the trip as we went from small town to small town at a relaxed pace. It was here that my soul was touched by the memory of what Route 66 and America once was. As a child in tow with my parents and brothers,

we had taken many trips across the United States and many of those said trips were on portions of Route 66. This was probably one of the few sections that still existed much as it was from those days long ago. To me it was a whisper of a dream from my youth that spoke of roadside stands, coonskin caps, Daisy BB guns and the innocence that has suffered in their passing. As I was lost in my revelry I suddenly felt a unusual surging in my engine and at first was thinking I might have an issue with my cush-drive in my clutch. Instead, as we rolled into the town of Marshfield I realized I was running out of charge on my battery. “Damn, damn, damn” I thought to myself. It is too soon to already have my charging issues raise their ugly head. I really did not want to be the first bike on the chase truck and having to ride as a four-wheeled passenger back to Los Angeles. However, as I coasted to a stop into a parking lot, looking up I realized that the gods were still on my side, as it was the parking lot for an AutoZone! They had a perfectly matched sealed cell AGM battery and within five minutes, we were back on the road! By this point between our side trip to the Caverns and the stop for repairs we were way behind the pack, so after a quick stop for gas it was decided to hit the Freeway to try and catch up to the rest of the pack.

Marshfield Mo, in front of the World’s Largest Gift Store!

Now we were sweating, the sun was going down and we had about 80 miles of Freeway till we picked up Route 66 when it crosses to the north side of the road, heading to our end point of Cartage, Mo. We were now chasing the light, with the sun directly in our eyes the whole way. On top of that, Satan himself must have designed the rain grooves in the Freeway here! I kid you not; it felt like both tires were completely flat, top that off

with Interstate Truckers blowing by at 85 MPH and it made for 80 miles of pure torture! We finally got off the freeway and were having to put up a quick pace trying to out race the sunset. Then with our destination almost in hand, we hit a detour and by the time we hit Carthage it was dark. As we motored into Carthage, I rode in the middle of our little group to hide the fact that my headlight was off in hopes of saving enough charge to get us to our lodging for the evening. No sooner had we hit the parking lot, Bib tore into us for not being with the group and generally unloading for all that had gone wrong during the days ride. It was okay as Tony and I often dance to our own music during the Club’s events so we took the fall even though we had made sure that everyone was informed of our planned deviation from the route. To top that off the chase truck has chosen to stay across the town so we were without our clothing and toiletries. This was the least of my worries, as I had to delve into my voltage issues and get my battery(s) hooked up to my trickle charger. After a quick check in, I went to the parking lot to hopefully work a miracle and at least get the battery out and on a tender. Surveying the scene, I could only describe it as “post battle”. There were the lucky warriors happy with their survival, some reveling with bravado, others slumped down with the tired look of a brutal day, and many with drink in hand toasting to their success. In the middle of this was the triage area with multiple casualties of motorcycles in various states of disassembly. Fortunately, the OIF A65’s are reasonably easy to access their electrical systems. Unlatch the seat and voila, it is all there for this surgeon to begin his operation. I was able to borrow a voltmeter from Brendan and started checking continuity. My hope was to find a miracle cure to allow me to finish this adventure on my own two wheels. After removing the battery to check my connections, my problem and solution were staring right back at me! One of my Power Box connections going to the alternator was plugged into the unused Zener diode plug! I wasn’t dealing with low charging, I was dealing with NO charging! Evidently, in my angry haste (noted earlier in this saga) I had misconnected the unit. At this point, not accepting this find, I checked and rechecked all my connections. Then in an act of over thinking the problem, I found some red wires that were unconnected in the loom. They seemed to be part of the coil loom that was abandoned during the Boyer upgrade, but for shits and grins sake, being that they were red, I connected them to ground. After giving some aid, solace, and advice to the other wounded warriors, working on their steeds it was time to settle my affairs for the evening. Beat but buoyed, I grabbed a quick sandwich, downed a celebratory beer, and hit the sack.

Kansas/Oklahoma - Day - Three

This was to be one of our longest riding days of the trip, with a scheduled 350 miles or so to the end point of Clinton. In the mild cool of the morning I reinstalled one of the batteries (as insurance I put the second in my tank bag) as the group gathered. The day was forecast to be in the high 90’s and for once, the weatherman was spot on. Preparing for the heat, I had opted for my Joe Rocket riding vest, a piece of apparel that would be envied by others over the rest of the journey. With the flag up, off we shot and I had gone no farther than a couple of miles before my bike started sputtering. Again looking for a miracle, I made myself believe that the unused red wire I had grounded was ungrounded for a reason. I pulled the connector, swapped out batteries and we were off. Here I have to give my thanks to my friend Tony; he stuck with me the whole time. So now with the pack gone and not quite sure of the correct route off we went. In the name of expediency, we jumped on the Interstate to try and catch up and ran into some other lost souls of the group. Just as we were up to speed, my bike started to sputter again with the symptoms of not advancing properly and pulled over to the side of the road. In a Hail Mary worthy of Doug Flutie, I reasoned the problem was the ignition unit itself. Being a true Boy Scout, I was prepared with a preconnected spare unit. With a flourish of Velcro and the unit replaced, we were back on the road. My guess is that with all of my fiddling with the battery and hard power changes I had damaged the unit. The good news was that this was to be the last of my electrical and ignition problems for the rest of the trip! The beauty of these disasters were that I was able to fix them in minutes and after putting the pedal to the metal thru Kansas, we caught up with the pack in Miami, Ok. After a quick gas and hydration stop, we were on the way. As for the rest of Oklahoma it is now somewhat of a blur to me and for good reason. To say the least, with Bib at the helm we hauled ass thru this state, with the exception of some detours due to road closures, and a section of road so bad that it was easier to ride the gravel margins, when on the pavement 70 MPH was our median low speed! After a bit of this, I had to slow down, as it was unlikely that the bike or I would endure this abuse. On top of that, the Good Samaritan in me and my friend Tony stopped several times to aid other riders whose bikes had failed them on this day. In the snippets of my memory of this day, I remember passing the famous Blue Whale of Catoosa in a blur while hanging on for dear life and our lunch in a town whose name now escapes me as did most that we hustled thru at neck breaking speeds.. I was actually with the pack and after several hours of riding in the sweltering heat, we were due to stop for lunch. As we motored thru the town looking for a “66” themed stop I saw the only place I wanted to go, a Sonic drive-thru. If you asked me why? There was only one reason, a giant slushy! As I lay down on the cool shaded concrete in a swarm of crickets, my friends and I happy embraced each brain freeze as our core temperatures were lowered to a livable level! In my painful bliss, I was taken back to the many times I had transversed this section of the highway as a child. Remembering the promise of a cool treat and maybe even a motel with a pool at the end of the day. One of my older brothers had summed up this experience on one of these nights. Saying, “You know why they call it the Sooner State? because sooner or later the crickets are going to get you!” I freely admit that I am a wise ass; it is apparently a genetic predilection in my lineage. Sadly, for the sake of Oklahoma all I can remember from this stop on was a mad dash to our lodgings in Clinton, with the ever-present sun right in my eyes.

Parking lot of our hotel in Clinton, Ok. With triage already in progress.

At least this time there was still some daylight remaining for those poor souls who were desperately trying to make repairs to their machines. I was glad that this was not my fate this day, instead only having to offer my advice, tools, and sympathy. The group enjoyed a great dinner at an adjoining steak house with the good news that tomorrow was to be a shorter ride with a later start time. As a postscript to the day, I would like to add an observation about classic motorcycling. During the late morning as the group was burning past a gas station in the middle of nowhere, I saw a couple of our group’s riders had stopped. One thing about riding older bikes, or even being older and riding bikes, is that you never pass a gas station when in parts unknown. It is a no lose proposition, you insure that your tank is full, get to stretch your legs, hit the restroom, and also give your aching bum a well deserved saddle break. Already here was a newer rider to the club, Michael L. He’s and older Orange County punk rocker and still maintains a bit of the look and swagger that goes with the territory. I instantly took a liking to him as he has a quick smile and an unforced sense of humor. He was one of the handful of renegades who was not mounted on an English marquis, but you could not complain as he had brought a lovely 1950’s BMW in the classic black and white paint scheme. Somewhere during the morning one of his rear springs on his plunger, suspension had became trapped in its framework. So after checking with the group there if anyone had a mallet to try and free the unit with no luck, he started to canvas the locals as to where he could borrow a suitable tool. Under any other circumstance, here in Gods Country his mien would have been more than off putting to the local populace. However, by being a rider of a classic motorcycle, he instantly had a myriad of sympathizers who were able to get him pointed in the right direction.

Texas – Day - Four

As a nice break, we did not have to hurry for a zero dark thirty launch. Tony and I took the opportunity to visit the local Route 66 Museum in Clinton. This is a nice little venue with lots of information and displays covering the history of Route 66. On top of this as we were leaving, a tour group from England arrived by bus to visit the museum. They we pleasantly surprised to see our BSA and Norton in the parking lot.

My trusty BSA was right in place at the Clinton, Ok Route 66 Museum.

We arrived back at the hotel just in time to square our gear away, but had realized that we needed to top off our gas tanks before hitting the road. In the time it took for us to get gas, the group had already left and once again, I was in the position of playing catch up. I hate to say that again we were flying thru Oklahoma and could not pay attention to any of the sites or attractions that this state my have to offer, Without any fan fare, under an unforgiving sky we found ourselves in Texas. The Texas of today was no different that the Texas of my memory. Straight roads that disappear into the horizon, hardscrabble prairie, towns trying to hang on to god knows what, and a feeling that the Dust Bowl was ready to start up in earnest again. We caught up with the main pack in the little town of Shamrock, which also was to be our lunch stop for the day.

The Tower Service Station Complex, Shamrock Texas.

We all parked in front of the Tower Service Station Complex, which according to the guidebook I was carrying is one of the best-preserved Art-Deco artifices along the route. We all enjoyed a hearty lunch at the diner across the street, with plenty of iced beverages to prepare ourselves for afternoon leg of the trip to Amarillo. After lunch, we toiled our way down the road. By this time, the temperature was flirting with the 100-degree mark down an endless straight away of crumbling tarmac with only a few stray Prairie Dogs to break up our monotony. In the middle of the afternoon’s ride, we did pass by what was claimed to be the biggest cross in the Western Hemisphere, near the town of Groom.

My friend Tony seeking absolution at the giant cross of Groom, TX.

After a quick photo op, we were back on what seemed to be an endless ribbon of road. In fact, we had been going in a straight line for so long, I almost forgot how to make the right hand veer on to the section of the route heading into Amarillo. We arrived in Amarillo without incident and for once were actually ahead of the group. After taking a short rest in the shade, we headed straight for our lodgings for the evening. Even though we had only done a bit over 100 miles riding this day, I was truly beat. Most of the group had decided to go to a steakhouse of some renown, which I declined, as a couple of pounds of sirloin in my stomach for the next days ride had no appeal for me. I instead opted for some time in the pool and a quick sandwich. The nice part for we was that another abstainer, was Dave Edwards, (formally Editor in Chief of Cycle World), who I got to spend some time with shooting the breeze on life, love, and motorcycles. All this while overlooking the parking lot that was bustling with riders trying to get their machines back in working order. This scene seemed to be the norm for every evening of the trip. It did not surprise me, as instead of a marathon mentality, everyone seemed to have opted for a daily high-speed sprint and these valiant 40 some odd year old machines were showing the abuse. Harking back to my Colorado roots, these steeds were being ridden hard and put away wet for one too many a night.

Into New Mexico - Day - Five

Another early morning was on tap as we prepared to leave the fair state of Texas. I say this somewhat sarcastically as we were again expecting three digit temperatures and wind gusts of up to 30 miles per hour. I was personally glad to get Texas behind me, I am sure that this state has some wonderful attributes, but my only memories for her are of long, hot roads, with only disappointment at their end. On tap was 300 miles or so of road and our one major deviation from the path of Old 66. One of the old guard of the club is Roger, who is an archeological specialist in the lore of the Old West. At his and Bib’s behest, it was decided to detour down to Fort Sumner in New Mexico, for a quasi pilgrimage to the grave of Billy the Kid. This was fine by me as a good deal of Route 66 through the remainder of Texas and eastern New Mexico is now buried beneath Interstate 40. As a bit of excitement, our first stop of the morning was to visit the famous Cadillac Ranch on the outskirts of Amarillo. I relished the opportunity to see this renowned installation of pop culture, after a short hop and some backtracking on the Interstate’s frontage road we arrived.

A gaggle of classic bikes in front of the Iconic Cadillac Ranch.

As we walked out to these lonely sentinels of American culture across the stark windswept prairie, I was struck by the impermanence of man’s endeavors. The once gleaming icons of American commerce are now slowly fading to obscurity and ruin. With the ignoble scaring of graffiti and ever at work oxidation, God only knows how long these beasts will stand. With our tour group done, we headed to Vega, TX to pickup our southwesterly route out of Texas and into New Mexico. All was going well and the

group was maintaining a reasonable pace when suddenly in Hereford, TX I felt some wetness on my right boot. To my dismay, I found that it was wetness and it was oil. The funny part of this, in prediction of things to come, was that while waiting for the group to gas up in Vega I was shooting the breeze with Roger, as he described a similar situation when the seal on his tach drive gave out on his lovely Triumph. Feeling much like Odysseus wondering when his challenges would end, I pulled over to the side of the road to investigate the problem. Of course the first thing I checked was the area of the tach drive, but it looked good and not seeing an obvious source on quick glance I started the bike and immediately saw this oily mist shooting out from the front of the motor. Shutting the engine down I immediately saw the problem, my blanking plug was gone! How this happened I could not even guess, as it has been undisturbed since it left the factory some 40 years ago. With the pack now gone to the horizon, I was fully convinced I was completely screwed. However, as I looked up to where I had stopped; I was in front of an old time hardware store. It appeared that at least some of the old Gods were still on my side. As I stood in this convection oven, breathing the last remnants of top soil of this Dust Bowl town, I heard the tinkle of a bell. I mused from my memory that somewhere an angel had just received its wings and at what circle of hell does that no longer apply. The bell had heralded one of the employees of the said store who came out to inspect my bike. “Wow, you don’t see many of these anymore”, he said as a greeting in his slow Texas drawl, “Do you need some help?”. I quickly explained my situation and he happily stated that they had tons of drawers of hardware and we could surely find something that would fit. On top of this, he commented on what a beautiful day it was for a ride! “A beautiful day?”, I thought. In this hell of a forgotten town, to find any beauty could only be an act of grace. Miraculously after grabbing an assortment of nuts/bolts, I found a combination that fit. With the purchase of items, installation, quick degrease, topping off oil, and wishes of good luck, I was on my way. I called ahead to the chase truck found where they group had stopped for lunch and hit the road. Once again, I had staved off a ride in the chase truck. I guess it is an ego thing, but you never want to have to be a passenger in the chase truck, somehow, it means you have failed as a rider, a mechanic, and maybe even as a man. I now had 60 miles of lonely road to myself and as another aside; my speedometer drive was failing so I had no real gauge to my speed. I caught up with the group in Clovis, NM and just in time for a quick top up of my gas tank before leaving. They say if you love something, set it free and on this day, I had done that very thing with my friend Tony. He was riding a beautiful Norton Commando that he had recently renovated and had been dragging his feet to maintain pace with my BSA. Tony loves a quick pace so this day I let him go to unleash the beast inside of him. With that said, as we left Clovis, I fell to the back of the pack and was riding with a newbie to the group Brendan. It was no coincidence that Brendan was also riding a 1971 BSA Thunderbolt. It did not take long for the rest of the pack to put enough distance on us that we were riding alone. The ride to Ft Sumner was uneventful with the scenery still looking a lot like West Texas and by the time, we had pulled into town the pack had disappeared. Ft Sumner played on the fact that it was the final resting place of Billy the Kid, with numerous billboards announcing various museums and gift shops. We had checked everyone we passed by, but could not find our group. It would not have been unusual for Bib to do his impression of Clark Griswold at the Grand Canyon, take a quick look, be done with it, and be on his way. Brendan and I gathered at a gas station mid-town and

decided on a course of action. We assumed that the group would head due north out of town to meet up with Interstate 40 as quickly as possible, but looking at the map there seemed to be a more scenic and leisurely path by heading west. Just as we were getting ready to leave, a lone rider, Richard, pulled up on his Norton. Evidently his alternator stator had literally detonated and he was running solely on his battery. We told him of our planned route and he decided to join us. I figured at worst we could swap batteries if his bike died and much like the Rangers, we leave no man behind. As soon as we left Ft Sumner, the New Mexico I knew started to make itself known. We were gaining altitude to join the plateau at the center of the state. With each mile of the delightful roads that meandered thru this area the sky got bigger and the weather got cooler. This may have been one of my favorite portions of the ride. All along the roadside, there were copious amounts of wild flowers that were accentuated by the rolling road we were heading down.

My BSA, by the side of the road, framed by wildflowers and that glorious sky.

By the time we hit Vaughn, New Mexico, I was ready to take a break from riding. We pulled over to a gas station that was advertising fresh cherry cider. Richard had pulled ahead of us looking for a spare battery while Brendan and I enjoyed a nice break. The store attached to the station seemed to be the local general store and we enjoyed conversing with the locals while amassing some refreshments. The cherry cider was wonderful and I used it to chase down another rarity, an apricot tart. Rested and refreshed we headed into town to see if we could find Richard. We had almost left Vaughn when I heard a shout from across the street. Richard had found an old automotive repair shop

that was open (I was surprised as the rest of Vaughn was not doing too well). We pulled around and were greeted by Richard and the shop’s owner. They were in the process of strapping an automotive battery to the back of Richard’s bike and running some wires to where his battery connections were. Looking at this Rube Goldberg contraption, I could only smile when I learned of the shop owner’s name, Jude. Yes, Jude, the patron saint of lost causes! It appeared that there was still a miracle left from this much-revered name.

Richard and the miracle of Jude, in Vaughn, New Mexico.

With the fix in place, we hit the road and continued our day’s journey. The rest of the route up to Clines Corner at Interstate 40 continued with the theme of a nice little road and beautiful scenery. As we neared the Interstate, we were driving into some thick cloud cover and by the time, we hit Clines Corner it had started to drizzle. Normally I hate riding in the rain, but after the blast furnace of Oklahoma and Texas in was a welcome respite. After gassing up and putting on my rain gear, we were ready for the last 20 or so miles on the Interstate to our evening’s destination, Moriarity. At the same time, members of the main pack started to stagger into the station to take a break and top off their tanks. They would have been envious of our route as compared to the 80 or so miles that they had just endured on Interstate 40. The weather had now degraded to a full on shower, so we took to a very slow pace the rest of the way. Just as we entered the city limits of Moriarity, Bib blew by on his Norton, only to pull to the side of the road. I pulled over to see if I could help as I had gas, tools and various bits of hardware. I offered assistance and even my bike, but Bib declined and told me to advise the group at our motel for the night to send the chase truck for him. We were only an exit away, in a

matter of minutes I was parked out of the rain, and had advised the chase truck of Bib’s situation. As it turned out the group had stopped in Ft Sumner at a third museum that was off the main drag. Also Bib in ignoring the cardinal rule of riding in the boonies, even with a five-gallon interstate tank, had simply run out of gas! After a quick dip in the hotel’s indoor pool, Tony, Mitch. Paul, Brendan and I headed out for diner. The options were limited and we settled for a buffet at a truck stop dinner. We traded snippets of the day’s journey while slopping down some fairly inedible bits of food. It only lacked the Kinks “Motorway Food” as the theme music for the night.