The Church of the Open Road Press

RATTLESNAKE BAR – FOLSOM LAKE: ANOTHER LOCAL RIDE ‘N’ HIKE

2012-01-29T11:07:00.000-08:00

SACRAMENTO AREA MOTORCYCLE RIDERS live in a virtual Mecca of challenging roads. A nearly yearlong riding season means there is little need for gasoline stabilizer; just a nice set of winter gloves – which remained unused this day. The shortened daylight of winter may reduce the radius we may ride from home, but the frequent 60 degree afternoons beg us to take to the road if only for an hour or so.

Rattlesnake Bar Road is an engaging strip of asphalt leading to a little visited campground on the east flank of the Folsom Lake’s North Fork of the American. Unlike the other side of the lake, near Roseville, Rocklin and Granite Bay, the nearest community is Pilot Hill and it boasts perhaps forty-two residents.

Rattlesnake Bar Road, prior to the lake, crossed the American and came out on the north side. There are vestiges of it in both Placer and El Dorado Counties. On the El Dorado side, things appear much more rural. Eighty-year-old barns still function. Remnants of failed hydraulic mining operations dot the landscape. An interesting posted-keep-out quarry boasts old equipment and foundations. Huge swaths of chemise grow where recent once and future wildfires run. There is pasture, oak woodland and farmsteads. A trip to the local 7-11 for a quart of milk takes a half day.

The road is narrow, paved, but recently chip sealed. It rises over rounded hills and descends into minor stream courses. Each turn offers the intrigue of an expansive view or an enchanting glen. And there is virtually no traffic.

THE PENINSULA CAMPGROUND is closed for the season. A gate bars the road but ample room for parking exists by the boarded-up State Park entrance station.

With budget cuts on California’s dark horizon, one can’t help but wonder if the plywood will ever be removed from this structure.

Walking is pleasant along the paved road beyond the gate. Within a turn or two, a half-full Folsom Lake comes into view. Taking a left at a junction, the route skirts what would be the shoreline and heads toward the campground. A well-maintained nature trail invites us to leave the pavement and explore the oaks and grasses, dried shoots of which have been battered down by last week’s storm. New green sprouts push up to take their place.

Breaking off the trail to explore the lake’s bathtub ring, a hunk of sun-bleached drift catches my eye. The shadow of last season’s star thistle lies cross it.

Below the path, in a silt-smoothed draw, a tiny concrete bridge stands. Normally inundated by flood protection, the lime in the concrete has dissolved. From a distance it is hard to determine the directions from which a road might have lead to or from the structure. The shifting of the lake floor beneath the water has markedly changed so much. Still, could this structure have been part of the old Rattlesnake Bar Road?

The banks are bare, but the lake is blue and these dogs are having the best dog day ever. A flock of geese rises when the black one gets too close. He still hasn’t figured out: “If it can fly, you can’t have it.”

The sun is high; the temperature very pleasant. And if we didn’t need the rain so badly, we’d wish each day could be just like this one. Is this heaven? No. This is Folsom Lake.

RETURNING, Rattlesnake Bar Road seems different than it did on the way in. Perhaps it is due to the time of day. Perhaps the eastward rather than westward orientation. Perhaps the position of the late January sun. The hills are golden. Those tiny green shoots have yet to break through. In a couple of weeks however, this section will be carpeted with winter grass and fresh wildflowers. I promise myself a return.

Back at the quarry, I break a personal rule and stop – on the public thoroughfare – for a picture of a derelict steam shovel back on that quarry’s private property. It feels a bit like trespass, but you don’t see one of these every day. The light is poor, so I doctor the photo at home. Perhaps I’ll take a second run at this photo when those flowers appear early next month. There are more – and longer – sixty-degree days yet to come.

TODAY’S ROUTE: I-80 east to Auburn; SR 49 south through the canyon to Cool and beyond. Four miles south of Cool (watch for the big empty brick building on the right) right turn on to Rattlesnake Bar Road. Nine miles into the campground. Return: Retrace Rattlesnake Bar Road, but right on Salmon Falls Road only yards before reaching SR 49 at Pilot Hill; 17 famously sweeping miles into Folsom.

© 2012
Church of the Open Road Press

TOPOMAPSAPP.COM – PRODUCT REVIEW

2012-01-26T11:35:00.000-08:00

A TINY DIRT ROAD leads close to the point on the earth’s surface where California, Nevada and Oregon all come together. “The rest we’ll have to do on foot,” says buddy John, who points out on the Lake Annie Quadrangle exactly where the hike would start.

Fifty years ago, Dad stashed in his den an old musette bag chock full of United States Geological Survey maps, some seven-and-a-half minute versions, some fifteen. Some were more worn out that others, but each was neatly folded into quarters and stored in the Army surplus bag until their use was required. Dad planned hikes through the foothills northeast of Chico, chasing down Ishi using maps titled by the most prominent feature in their range: Panther Springs, Barkley Mountain, Onion Butte, Digger Pine Flat, Devils Parade Ground. These names proved not to be dominant on the landscape and seen for miles like Lassen Peak or Sutter Butte, rather they were tiny geographical or historic remnants chosen by USGS surveyors as prominent within a 30-or-so-square mile rectangle.

Perhaps it’s in my DNA but now I have my own attaché, full of quads. Some belonged to Dad, but some represent areas I’ve wished to explore: Mendocino Pass, Log Spring, Chico, Hamlin Canyon. I have dozens.

“WATCH THIS,” John says as he sweeps his index finger across the Annie Lake Quadrangle. The map moves eastward with his finger. It stops at its margin and an arrow appears. John taps the arrow and in a twinkling, the Barrel Springs Quad appears.

“Wow.”

John and I both studied Geography back when universities were called colleges. Although we attended different campuses, we each recall using Leroy lettering pen sets to hand draft maps starting with merely a faint grid on a large sheet of paper. We both recall the terms township and range, although he remembers what they mean while I need some prompting. We “get” magnetic north and true north and we understand the difficulty of charting a spheroid planet on a flat surface. We both recall harassment about our chosen majors: “Geography? What are they gonna teach ya? How to fold a map?”

FOLDING MAPS NO LONGER. The Lake Annie Quad and the neighboring Barrel Springs Quad were stored on John’s i-Pad. For $7.99 he downloaded an application that allows access to every USGS quadrangle in the country. He demonstrated a download with the swipe of his finger and then a touch. In moments, Dad’s old Panther Springs Quad glowed. Deftly, John spread his thumb and forefinger and the map expanded. Boat Gunwale Creek, Avery Place, Stone Corral – all the places we visited walking in Ishi’s footsteps.

“Watch this,” he said again tapping an icon at the corner of the screen. In seconds, the quadrangle was replaced by a satellite image (via Google Maps, I’m thinking) of rugged Mill Creek Deer Creek haunts of North America’s last “wild Indian.”

“Lemme see that!” I grab the electronic pad from my buddy and fumble with it. I scroll westward into the heart of the Coast Range. Finding the Mendocino Pass Quadrangle, I tap the grid and download. I scroll further until I find section 17. Spreading my fingers, the map zooms. I touch the icon. In an instant an aerial view of a swale appears with roads clearly marked.

More of that spreading action and I view Simpson Camp, idyllic and favored spot of summers decades ago.

“Wow”

THOSE OF US WHO RIDE big Stelvios or GSAs into the backcountry, those of us who mountain bike, or hike or Jeep are foolish if we do not plan our adventures with care. Central to this planning must be a reliable map. Studying a sheet helps us with the unmarked intersection, the flow of watercourses, the promontories and peaks that may serve as guides and the quickest route back to pavement or gasoline. Call it orienting oneself.

On the road, like Dad did on the trail, I carry several paper versions of where I’m going to go. These are essential to ensuring that the adventure does not become too adventuresome. I don’t carry my i-Pad: no power source, no coverage and, until a couple of days ago, no maps.

But about five minutes after buddy John and I bid farewell, I was at my desk, accessing i-Tunes and TopoMapsApp.com. Since I did this I have revisited the Ishi Wilderness, the Yola Bollies of the Coast Range, and my favorite growing-up spots around Chico and Sonora. I have also plotted that trip to the northeastern corner of California – up in the Lake Annie Quad – and await the opportunity to hike in there.

RESOURCE: http://topomapsapp.com/

© 2012
Church of the Open Road Press

MAURICE? MEET MARTIN

2012-01-22T15:13:00.000-08:00

Music, I feel, must be emotional first and intellectual second.

- Maurice Ravel

IT’S A MONDAY, January 16, and we’re all supposed to be celebrating the life and legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King. Hours from home, with an emptying tank of gas, I leave “Noma” with the grandchildren and head to the local Chevron for a fill up. A tiny publicly supported FM station is replaying those words I’ve probably heard thirty or more times. Although not to the “I have a dream” sequence, I know who is talking and what is to come. My pulse quickens just a bit. I drive past the Chevron intent on listening to the speech in its entirety before I conduct business. I turn into a newer subdivision ostensibly to check out what might be for sale. Hours from grandkids is hours too far.

The speech builds. Through the scratched and aging recording, I think can tell the point where Dr. King famously deviates from whatever he’d prepared. His cadence tells tale. Printed, his phrases may have begun with “I have a dream;” but spoken, they end with it. Same with other phrases like: “Let freedom ring.”

Rapt again, I listen. In anticipation, my pulse has quickened a bit more. Circling out of the development, I pull into the Chevron station to the words “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty, we are free at last!” (The irony of my stuffing a nozzle from “big-oil” into my gas tank is lost on me.)

Back in the Nissan after the fill up, I switch off the radio. I want to think about what I’ve just heard and savor the delivery. I wonder whether the message would have survived had Dr. King simply read his notes. Genius that he was, King composed notes. But when the time was right, he left them for some other dimension.

IT IS STILL MONDAY, January 16, and we are driving the many miles between the grandkids and home. Noma is snoozing upright in the seat next to me. I’ve switched FM stations to the Bay Area’s home of classical music. The woman controlling the turntable says, “You might want to turn up your volume a bit so you don’t miss the beginning.” Dutifully, I do so.

Having played concert tuba in an orchestra, I’ve probably heard or performed Ravel’s “Bolero” thirty times. I knew its sensual build long before Blake Edwards popularized it in the movie “10” during which he introduced all young men in the nation to Bo Derek. The snare’s tap-tappity-tap-tap-tappity-tappity-tap-tap sounds just like it did when the percussionist stood fifteen feet off to my right. My pulse quickens. I know what is going to happen. My part isn’t going to start for some time. The guys in the trombone section and I joke that we could go out and start a load of wash and still be back in time for our cue.

My hands tap the snare rhythm on the steering wheel, but the musical phrase doesn’t always begin on one. Sometimes the phrase begins a half-beat past one, and ends on one in some subsequent measure. Ravel establishes a cadence simply so he can deviate from it.

About fourteen minutes into the composition, my heart rate is elevated yet again. I’m doing 68 in the middle lane, Noma is still asleep next to me, but folks on either side are whisking by in the darkness, needing to go faster. I move to the right lane and prepare to sing the bass [bAse] line.

Following one early performance, a woman patron said to Ravel: “You’re a crazy man!” His response? “Oh. So you’ve listened to my music.”

AROUND DIXON, some twenty-five miles hence, I am still drumming on the wheel and humming Ravel’s work when I dawns on me: The Bolero is never over – and neither, I’m hoping as I drive along in the dark, is the dream.

I wonder whether Martin and Maurice’s paths have crossed in heaven.

© 2012
Church of the Open Road Press

HISTORIC SITES IN MY OWN BACK YARD: ONE-ROOM SCHOOLHOUSES

2012-01-17T15:55:00.000-08:00

TOOLING AROUND on a mild January afternoon, I came across a community hall that, in an earlier life, served as a one-room schoolhouse in Western Placer County (California.) This got me thinking about the old one-room schoolhouses and how they were our first foray into public education. I began to compare the enormity of yesteryear – 17 to 30 kids ranging from six to sixteen all in one room – with the enormity of today. I was reminded that the teacher’s job has never been easy.

If I hadn't parked that blasted motorbike in the way, the discerning eye could see that the old Fruitvale schoolhouse had been added-on-to in order to accommodate an expanding population of kids from this rural area. Behind the porch is the original structure. To the left is one of the additions.

Back in the days before lawsuits and insurance riders, a rope flung over a stout oak limb and tied securely to a weathered old two-by served as a fine swing. Imagine the sample here tied with sisal, you know the stuff: the fibrous rope, that, when new, leaves painful tiny splinters in soft fleshy hands. Here modern nylon that works but never quite feels right has replaced the authentic.

Tarrying beneath that grand oak would come to a halt when one of the older boys – they didn't allow girls to do this – tugged on the (again sisal) rope, clanging the bell, alerting all that class was about to take up.

I imagine those who lingered by the rope swing a bit too long, or found a bit too much of interest on the long morning walk to school entered to regret their tardiness, back in the days when the board of education was a paddle.

A second wing was added at some point. Closed in the 50s, the old schoolhouse serves as a home base for Fruitvale area 4-Hers. In the foreground, someone has cut up some oak into rounds. One the opposite side of the schoolhouse, a shed houses bales of straw for some project or another. Peeking inside, a bunny is housed in a hutch near the rippled glass window in order to absorb some winter rays. Kids are still learning stuff – real stuff – at the old Fruitvale Schoolhouse.

ON TODAY’S OUTING, I’d already paused at the nearly forgotten site of Manzanita School. Long since razed, it leaves only a weathering concrete foundation located in the middle of a cemetery of the same name maybe four miles west of Fruitvale…

…accessed by taking the gravel Chamberlain Road east from state route 65 three miles north of Lincoln.

Positioned where it was, my imagination tells me that a Margaret Hamilton look-alike schoolmistress (think Wicked Witch of the East) could point out the window at the many, aging graves and pull back into line even the squirreliest of young male pupils - such as myself.

ON MY EVER-EXPANDING BUCKET LIST is to visit a few of these sites on those winter sojourns where the radius of exploration is limited by the drop in temperatures at the end of a very short day. Most of these intersections I think I know from “tooling around” on the Guzzi or the Beemer. I suspect that remnants of concrete or brick foundations – like that of Manzanita School – will serve as the only evidence that these little learning centers ever existed. More lasting, perhaps, must be the educational foundation provided by the school marms to each and every one of her rural charges, teaching them reading so they could understand the Constitution and the Bible; writing, so they could communicate in the days when “Twitter” was simply the melody a song bird carried; and arithmetic, so they could help with feed and fencing and cooking from scratch.

Foundations indeed.

NOTE: One-room schoolhouses dot our historic past. There’s a great hall off highway 16 in the Capay Valley (Yolo County, CA); one up on Table Mountain ay Cherokee (Butte County, CA) and another one up that way at Oregon City.

The Church of the Open Road invites you to comment on relics such as these found in your neck of the woods.

© 2012
Church of the Open Road Press

HELD “CLASSIC” RIDING GLOVES – PRODUCT REVIEW

2012-01-14T21:06:00.000-08:00

PLAYING SANTA FOR MYSELF this most recent holiday season, I violated at least two rules I usually hold dear: A) I purchased something on-line rather than from a local dealer and 2) I purchased something simply because it looked so damned good.

Last summer, I bought a pair of Held Air Stream motorcycle gloves that I find myself wearing consistently on the GSA. They are comfortable, well constructed and seem durable. The nearest dealer carrying Held products is the BMW shop in Modesto, some ninety minutes south.

Viewing Held's line up of hand protection, I was taken by the look of their touring glove called the “Classic.” They seem to be a throwback to the days when gloves were made simply of leather – that stuff that comes from the hides of animals. Not available locally, not even from the guys in Modesto, I took the bait and purchased them directly from the US distributor. Back ordered from continent – they’re manufactured in Germany – the six-week wait was worth it.

No sooner had the Fed-Ex truck sped away than I was ripping through the packaging anticipating a test drive of these classic Classics.

Yet another dry January day

IN THE COMBINED MONTHS of December and January (2012) my area has received a scant .07 inches of precipitation. The valley fog has been held at bay and the days have been comfortably warm – in a rather uncomfortable way. No snow in the winter means a lot of bad things: poor water shipments to area growers, and a long and nasty fire season. The upside is the extended riding season. In the past month, I probably have 1,000 miles in the Held Classics.

The soft cowhide leather is supple and, well, glove soft. Tooling around on the Guzzi Breva, with hands exposed to the windblast, the gloves nicely protect my digits. Even with temps hovering around 50 degrees, I haven’t felt the need to pull out my thick, old winter gloves. The interior polyester-cotton fabric is soft and likely would serve to wick moisture, were it hot enough for my hands to produce any.

Not being a big fan of Velcro® (hook and loop style) closures, I appreciate the two position snaps at the wrist that secures the glove. I know they’re closed and they won’t blow open, although it is a bit cumbersome to snap the second one closed while wearing the first one; and with my Tour Master leather jacket, the closure seems to want to compete for that real estate at the end of my jacket sleeve.

Once I get ‘em situated however, extended days with the Held Classics are shear comfort. I never feel insulated from the controls and I’m not fumbling with switchgear. Plus, the combination of black leather on the palms and brown leather on the back looks really stylish to a sixty-year-old guy such as myself. (I almost want to keep them in the pickup for those days I know are coming where ice has glazed the windshield and the steering wheel feels as if it spent the night in the freezer.)

I like these gloves a lot and am almost willing to sacrifice the state’s agribusiness industry and the threat of wild fires for the extended riding time I enjoy in this product.

RESOURCES

www.heldusa.com/gloves

© 2012
Church of the Open Road Press

THE BUSINESS WITH TWO BOTTOM LINES

2012-01-12T11:03:00.000-08:00

A visit to Moto International in Seattle, Washington

B 1200 Sport

SIX OR EIGHT MONTHS AGO, the Moto Guzzi bug bit me. I’d ridden a beautiful bike known as a 1200 Sport at the Guzzi dealer nearest to me. (A nod, here, to the good folks over at Elk Grove Power Sports. Thanks!) Enamored by everything this bike presented except for the café-style bend-your-body-forward handlebars, I weighed whether, so set up, this would be the bike for me. I checked on-line forums, motorcycle reviews and finally contacted a dealer whose name kept coming up over and over.

In retrospect, my question about the handlebars on a B-1200 Guzzi was a very trivial thing. As with most motorcycles, aftermarket modifications and fixes are abundant and there would be a solution to this “problem.” Still, Dave Richardson, owner of Moto International in Seattle, Washington, returned my call and spent quite a while explaining to me the options I might pursue if I chose the 1200 Sport.

B 1100 Breva

As history played out, I found a used Guzzi, very similar to the beautiful Sport model, but one that came with handlebars more to my liking. And I bought it.

LAST WEEKEND, after a two hour stint with Southwest Airlines, I arrived in Seattle to celebrate a 60th with a friend. Knitted into our errands, I was afforded the opportunity to stop by Moto International. I wanted to thank Mr. Richardson for his advice and time. Living 800 miles away, I am certain that he knew the odds of me purchasing a bike from him were slim, but I think he saw me as a potential member of a community he is dedicated to serve.

Having visited MI’s website, I was eager to pour over the large selection of current and non-current Guzzis, and Dave has a ton of them. When he approached in his rather cozy showroom, we shook hands and I shared my gratitude for his previous call. Now a member of the community, our conversation moved to a question of oil weights recently raised on a Guzzi forum site I frequent. Within minutes, he gave me a primer on 10w60 synthetics and ran a page from his book “Guzziology” to save as a reference. Again he was going to make no money on this exchange.

MY VISIT LASTED ONLY TWENTY MINUTES. I had places to go and people to see in preparation for the friend’s 60th. But as I drove away, these thoughts circulated: Dave runs a small business carrying a very unique product in a very tough market. He probably grosses enough to pay for the small crew of very cordial fellows who work the parts counter and the service department, leaving something to support himself and his loved ones. So I suspect that the money-side bottom line is positive most years.

But there’s another bottom line: That one is being a member of a larger community. It is measured by how the business serves its customer base, as well as also those who may wander in – as I figuratively did over the phone that day. In MI’s case, the larger community includes folks who tear around the country with ear-to-ear grins because they ride a Moto Guzzi; and those of us wanna-bes. I further suspect, from the handshake and conversation, Mr. Richardson is also quite a contributor to his neck of the Seattle community because of his affability, his patience and his dedication to educating and helping others.

Successful small businesses have two bottom lines. One is financial, the other is more difficult to measure. But if the business is to remain successful, both are essential. In fact, they are inseparable.

RESOURCES:

Moto International: www.motointernational.com

© 2012
Church of the Open Road Press

BUYING FROM THE LOCAL GUY? EATING WITH THE LOCAL GUY!

2012-01-10T20:53:00.000-08:00

TUCKED IN BEHIND A STARBUCKS and a Subway in the little strip mall adjacent to our neighborhood is one of those gems hidden because we’re too much in a hurry these days to actually look for it.

The corporate outlets – Chili’s, Olive Garden, Mimi’s, Chevy’s – would have us believe that their fare is authentic. And perhaps it is. But sitting at a table, being served by the owner who grew up somewhere in the same time zone as all of Thailand brings authenticity to a much more authentic level.

BANGKOK CITY, at the corner of Rocklin Road and Sierra College Boulevard (and just steps away from the house) is a place I do not frequent enough but frequent rather frequently. Initially, I dropped in because it was really local and I didn’t want to cook. Now I drop in because I want to be transported to a place I’ll likely never visit through the strength of the cuisine – the unique sauces, the varied noodles, the shrimp, the lamb, the chicken, the curry. And the gentle caress of the owner’s voice as she shares with us the evening’s specials.

Tonight, the owner and I visited about the rosemary bacon-wrapped pork chop I didn’t cook because I so desired what on her menu is listed at “Number 52.” We started with whatever Thai is for “pot stickers” accompanied with a soy and ginger based sauce, twenty of which would have been a meal. My spouse enjoyed a vegetarian delight with noodles concocted from beans. My shrimp dish came with just enough sweet chili to remind me how flavor can truly be enhanced when the chef is an artist at heart.

Bangkok City follows the Church of the Open Road’s encyclical about buying from the little local guy. The entire wine list is comprised of Placer County wines, some of which are served in few other places. The Fawn Ridge Old Vine – we purchased their last bottle this night – seemed as if it had been vinted simply to match tonight’s fare.

Throughout each of our visits we are constantly cared for by owners and wait staff that live locally. Our dollars go directly to them and circulate directly back to our community.

WALKING HOME FROM BANGKOK CITY for the umpteenth time, I knew what I’d consumed was far better than corporate: more authentic, fresher, tastier, a bit more adventuresome and a bit less pretentious. Though liking to cook, it felt really good to eat out this night.

All of which raises the question: What local eateries in your community are those hidden gems, often lost in the glare of corporate neon?

THE CHURCH OF THE OPEN ROAD RECOMMENDS:

Thai: Bangkok City: www.rocklinthai.com 5050 Rocklin Road, Rocklin, CA, 916-632-9282.

Italian: La Fornaretta: www.lafornaretta.com 455 Main Street, Newcastle, CA, 916-663-1338 – Note: We ran into Paul Newman at this place shortly before the legend’s passing a few years back.

Also Italian: The Italian Cottage: www.theitaliancottage.com 2234 Esplanade, Chico, CA 530-343-7000 – A Church of the Open Road favorite since it opened in about 1962.

Chinese: Frank Fats’s: www.fatsrestaurants.com At 8th and L in Sacramento, since 1939, the third house of the California Legislature. The “Church” ate with Jerry Brown there once, although he won’t remember.

Mexican: The Original Lorenzo’s, 3883 Taylor Road, Loomis, CA, 916-652-6218. Two words for you: “ta males.”

Also Mexican: La Hacienda, www.lahacienda-chico.com 2635 Esplande, Chico. A family favorite since 1957 when they were located on Nord Avenue at the creek. Just try to get their salad dressing recipe.

California Cuisine: The Diamondback Grill, www.thediamondbackgrill.com Downtown Sonora, CA. We’d share the address, but then you’d miss the shops on Washington Street.

Breakfast: Putah Creek Café, www.putahcreekcafe.com 1 Main Street, Winters, CA, 530-795-2682. If you can find better breakfast sausage anywhere… Wait! You can’t find better breakfast sausage anywhere.

ALTHOUGH THIS LIST IS NOT DEFINITIVE, readers get the point. The hard-working local guy deserves our business – and then our repeat business.

The Church would welcome your suggestions for local eats. Please click on the comment section and bear with the funky sign-in procedure.

© 2012
Church of the Open Road Press

A JANUARY RIDE THROUGH THE GOLD COUNTRY

2012-01-03T16:20:00.000-08:00

Perhaps the only conceivable upside to climate change…

MANY INDEPENDENT SCIENTISTS believe fervently that changes in weather patterns over time are the result of human activity. Industry scientists disagree. Either way, January 1, 2012 found the temperature hovering around April 1st levels and a mid-winter motorcycle ride was in order.

MOST OF THE ROADS in my area I’ve enjoyed; few I’ve enjoyed in January. Heading north on state route 49, I approach Grass Valley. Just one year ago, this little gold country town was blanketed in previously unrecorded amounts of freezing snow and ice. I remember watching people shush along town sidewalks to carry on commerce in the many independent businesses there. Today, there may as well be pansies planted in the flower boxes.

WINDING THROUGH TOWN, I find myself on the old Rough and Ready highway heading west toward a berg of the same name. A century and a half ago, folks in these parts had had just about enough and seceded from the union. Bloodlessly, they rejoined, perhaps when they discovered nobody was paying attention.

OUT PLEASANT VALLEY ROAD, a renamed section of the old Henness Pass Route, nee: Virginia Turnpike, one discovers a string of what used to be gold encampments along the course of the South Yuba. At Bridgeport, a covered bridge spans the river. Purported to be the longest in all the country, it is closed to pedestrian traffic due to structural concerns surrounding earthquakes, so for the time being, the span serves merely as historic eye candy for the passer-by. South Yuba River State Park is on California’s heartbreaking list of those slated for closure.

Nicely groomed trails and abandoned wagon roads course over these foothills and long the route of the Yuba – both upstream and down. In two months the flattened dry grass will yield to sweeping fields of lupine and poppy. I must make a note to return, if only to test this theory. There is adequate paved parking both inside and outside the park’s gate. A delightful reconstruction of an old Shell Gas Station and a tiny interpretive center invite some off-saddle exploration. When the park closes, one trembles at the thought of the place’s demise – and multiply that by 70 other parks, I am told.

UP THE ROAD A PIECE, the pavement angles through French Corral. One could speculate on the origins of this town’s name, but I’ll bet some guy name Pierre or Andre or maybe just “Frenchy” may have had something to do with a livery there. An historic marker indicates that the world’s first long distance telephone line linked French Corral with Bridgeport. The associated story tells us that during prohibition, the phone line was as a means to warn those upstream of the approach of revenuers. Students of area history dispute this claim, but as with the secession of Rough and Ready, it makes a good tale.

PLEASANT VALLEY ROAD continues through the temperate regions of Nevada and Yuba County intersecting with State Route 20 at Sweetland. A bar sits at the corner – one frequented on weekends by droves of riders on big vee-twins. I’ve not stopped in.

A DESCENDING SUN reminds me that I am, indeed, riding in January. The spring-like temperatures will not hold past dusk. Plus, it’s my night to cook. State Route 20 provides a pleasant run back across the South Fork, through Nevada City and Grass Valley and on the bottomland suburbs of Sacramento.

Regarding climate change? I’m not one who’d like to see our beautiful planet rendered into little more than a charred bit of puffed wheat, vacantly orbiting a sun none too quick to nova. I’d like us to regard our activities with a little more care and take every conceivable action to retard the overall warming of the place. Still, on a 68-degree mid-winter day, I’ll probably compromise my concerns and head out for a few hours on the bike enjoying dry pavement, sunny skies and those April-like temperatures. Call me selfish.

MORE PICTURES from the South Yuba River State Park:

View down the South Fork from one of many area hiking trails.

One of three or four plaques placed to provide details about the covered bridge.

Back in the day, one pump meant only one flavor of petrol.

Inside a restored barn, several examples of early transport - horse or ox-drawn - are preserved.

The "Virginia Turnpike" is also known as the old Henness Pass Route.

At the Kneebone family cemetery.

On the current circumstance surrounding the historic bridge.

Bitney Springs

TODAY’S ROUTE: State Route 49 north from Auburn to Grass Valley; exit Bennett Street left toward town; left on West Main which becomes Rough and Ready (R&R) Highway to R&R. Backtrack east on R&R Highway; left on Bitney Springs Road (a delightful section of pavement through small farms, pastures, and past the spring itself); right on Pleasant Valley Road to Bridgeport (South Yuba River State Park), French Corral, Birchville and Sweetland; right on State Route 20, return to Nevada City – Grass Valley.

RESOURCES:

California State Parks: www.parks.ca.us

South Yuba River State Park Association: http://www.southyubariverstatepark.org/
Please check out the link to this important volunteer group.

This poor fella's on display at the visitor's center.

Regarding Rough and Ready seceding from the Union: http://www.roughandreadychamber.com/rough_and_ready_004.htm

© 2012
Church of the Open Road Press

THANK YOU, 2011

2011-12-31T10:57:00.000-08:00

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

George Santayana

in Reason in Common Sense

AT YEAR’S END, both print and broadcast media are replete with stories about Americans happy to bid a horrible year good bye. Poor job prospects, down economy, incessant wars, endless political bickering coupled with an election cycle that apparently has no end, and perhaps “I didn’t get what I wanted for Christmas” feed this sad mentality. Too bad, but this isn’t news. Every year, the media finds the disgruntled man-on-the-street and tells the same story come the end of December.

Why doesn’t the monologue change? Because the average Joe apparently doesn’t want to pick out the lessons of the most recent year gone by and learn from them.

Average Joe ought to be thanking 2011 for the lessons proffered like:

GRIDLOCK DOESN’T SOLVE ANYTHING. Those who voted for ideologically inflexible candidates can thank themselves for a Washington unable to do the work of government and move our country toward renewed prosperity. Amped up concerns about spiraling debt, matched with pledges to not raise taxes simply means the government cannot accomplish the tasks demanded by its people.

AMERICA DOES NOT ALWAYS NEED AN EVIL TO OPPOSE. Propping up our decade long war in the Middle East and Central Asia with false claims about Islamic theology only serves to anger the world community and drain our national treasury. In the name of security, we use fear and falsehoods to create insecurity abroad while folks at home drive across crumbling bridges and over leaky gas pipelines to communities that sacrifice police protection and public schooling in an effort to save tax dollars. Meanwhile, the average Muslim would like to get up in the morning and go to work without fear of getting blown to bits.

PEOPLE CAN ASSEMBLE PEACEFULLY TO EFFECT CHANGE. The Arab Spring and the Occupy Movement have shown this works. We should have learned that the quicker those in power respond positively to the message of those in the square, the more peacefully the change will evolve. Confronting protests with bullets, pepper spray, or worse, lies, only prolongs the conflict and proves to be antithetical to the democracy we claim to embrace.

MONEY DOES NOT BUY HAPPINESS. Once again, the New York Yankees, with the highest payroll in all of baseball, did not make it past the first round of the playoffs. (If I cared for the Yankees, I might shed a tear.)

Finally, CHEETAS NEVER PROSPER. No, that’s not a typo. Recently the chimp featured in the Tarzan movies of the 30s and 40s died at age 80 of kidney failure. The primate was never compensated in any way for being a better actor than Johnny Weissmuller and - to the eye of a seven-year-old sitting in the El Rey Theater on Second Street in Chico for so many Saturday afternoon matinees - nearly as cute as Maureen O’Sullivan. Nope. Cheeta never got paid.

THERE IS MUCH TO LEARN from a 2011 that sacrificed its good name in order to provide many, many, many teachable moments. 2012 will be a great year, but only if we heed the lessons of her predecessor.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

MONEYBALL: RECOMMENDED READING FOR EDUCATORS

2011-12-28T12:48:00.000-08:00

MAYBE I’M LATE TO THE PARTY, but I just read Michael Lewis’s book Moneyball. It came to me as a Christmas gift. Ostensibly about a low-budget baseball team out performing its available revenue, it is really about the use of data to drive success. Baseball is at once a beautifully simple game – hit, run, throw, catch – and a team sport driven by statistics: batting average, runs batted in, earned run average, slugging percentage. The mind-numbing list goes on and on.

Lewis suggests that success can be predicted when all but the most important data is thrown aside. At least that’s what Oakland Athletics front office folks figured out.

SO WHAT? For the longest time, we, as educators, didn’t give a crap about data. In fact, when asked about numeric proof, we gave every indication that we were threatened by data. We found comfort in defining success as doing what we’d always done, eschewing numbers. When asked for a measure of success, we couldn’t pinpoint anything because we relied upon how happy our students were, how content our parents were, and how the school community expectation was that younger sibling would get exactly the same thing that older sibling got. In essence, as a former superintendent aptly put it: “We weren’t teachers with twenty years experience; we were teachers who taught one year twenty times over.”

Critics of schools justifiably looked at world-wide performance in math and literacy - comparing us to them - then, like the man in Tiananmen Square a few decades ago, stood in front of our line of tanks and said, essentially: “Wait a minute.”

Educational leaders, legislators, and the publishing houses that found they could make a dime off of this discord immediately jumped on a bandwagon of testing each and every thing a kid was supposed to know. This will have proven to be a necessary step, but one with enormous costs in terms of instructional time, one which yields rafts of statistics, but few of which are of actual value.

THE TASKS BEFORE us as educators are to:

specifically determine which data from which assessments measures success, and then
focus on curriculum content and instructional strategies that contribute to the necessary and desired measurable student performance.

Does that invite us to teach to a more limited test?*

Absolutely not. We must demand of ourselves that all students receive a broad curriculum grounded in knowledge but richly steeped in problem solving, critical thinking and creativity. Evidence of our success will appear as student performance beyond simply the Scantron sheet.

Great! That means we can bag interim assessments and annual tests, right?

Wrong. What is means is that we make professional decisions about our assessments based on the select data that we know will serve as predictor of success later on in the student’s academic progression and ultimately in the student’s life.

Job one is to identify assessments that don’t lend themselves to this task and see that they receive less of our time, and less of our attention. Perhaps, some just need to be thrown aside.

The immediate result? More time to actually teach.

o0o

FOOTNOTE:

* Shame on us for having been cowed into “teaching to the test.” When we teach the curriculum kids’ll do well on the test; when we teach to the test, they’ll miss out on huge swaths of curriculum and we are guilty of malfeasance.

RECOMMENDED RESOURCE:

Lewis, Michael: Moneyball. New York: W. W. Norton and Company. 2004.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

MR. BRILLIANT RECOMMENDS – FOURTH ESTATE EDITION

2011-12-26T20:45:00.000-08:00

Fourth in an annual series…

Books that are half-read gather dust on my shelf and generally have a bookmark still placed at their point of death. More often than not, these are works of fiction: stories poorly told, too frequently told or stories written for a denominator different than my own.

Some books this year, however, were completely and eagerly read – and some reread. I am surprised to note that most are non-fiction – although they read as though an entertaining novelist plotted them – and most were written by journalists. It seems a good reporter tells a good story. Here are some examples:

WEST OF THE WEST. Mark Arax (formerly of the LA Times.) New York: Public Affairs. 2009. $15.99

As a native son of the Golden State, I once inquired about supplementing my Geography major with a minor in California. In my twenties I enjoyed the diversity of the geology, wild land, climate, histories, peoples, ways-of-life and constant change. I knew I would be intrigued by whatever “research” this study might involve. The university advisor was kind enough not to laugh. “People don’t do that,” he said. At least not for credit.

Arax pulled it off. West of the West collects eleven essays based upon stories Arax reported. Not limited to column inches, he invites readers into the world that is our state, allowing us to embrace the everyday characters we might otherwise only pass on the street: cops, drug dealers, organic farmers, military parents, immigrants, business people and barkeeps. Although personally rooted in the agricultural regions surrounding Fresno, Arax ventures north to the Humboldt, south to the Salton Sea; from the ‘burbs of LA to the dusty valley bergs like Oiltown and Taft. He examines who we are in these places and where we came from. He outlines how systems built to protect the system serve to destroy the individual and how individuals in California survive in spite of it.

He makes us examine the ironies we seem to accept: We are more than happy to pay the same $5.00 we paid in the 1990s but give little thought how that trickles down to the farmer and his field hand. And this contradiction extends to the farmer himself, who votes for the politician who wants to bar the Mexicans and then complains that his fruit is rotting on the vine because of a shortage of Mexicans. [Page 171]

California’s angst, I would conclude, we own.

THE BIG BURN: TEDDY ROOSEVELT AND THE FIRE THAT SAVED AMERICA. Timothy Egan (currently with the New York Times.) New York: Mariner Books. 2010. $15.95

I appreciate all that is done to preserve the woods for my enjoyment. A day off will find me discovering some passage into Gold Rush history on a barely-maintained road. My imagination calls me to think that maybe I’m the first one ever to see this place – ignoring the fact that I am indeed traveling on a road that was built by someone.

The combined vision of President Roosevelt and Gifford Pinchot allows my fantasies to exist. In a time when a burley America was resolute on subduing the resources of our vast, open west – Manifest Destiny style – these men understood the finite nature of that which seemed infinite. Egan recounts how Roosevelt faced down a Congress bought and paid for by industrialists, railroad men, mining interests, and timber corporations. A rag-tag group of college boys, farm hands, and drunkards – our first rangers – set to the forest to protect the watersheds, trees and wildlife, much to the chagrin of those who’s fortunes rested in exploiting the virgin west. The political intrigue is palpable.

Then, after a series of drier than normal winters, a fire erupts across the Bitterroots.

…Hollinghead knew at least one thing about wildfire, a retreat strategy the Indians used: it will never burn the same ground twice. So the young forest guard led forty men at a run back through the fire to get to a clearing that had just been overrun by flame. The dash cost them – burns on hands, face and hair afire… [Page 181]

Heroism, tragedy, cowardice, and fate play roles in a work that reads like a novel but invites the reader to visit the landscape upon which the story unfolds.

History repeats, I note, upon closing the volume: corporate interests today seem to have regained the run of the House. And Senate.

NICKEL AND DIMED – ON NOT GETTING BY IN AMERICA. Barbara Ehrenreich (Harper’s, The Nation, Time, the New York Times.) New York: Holt. 2008. $15.00.

A Facebook “friend” raged, “Do you know that more than forty percent of Americans don’t pay income taxes! Before we tax the business man, let’s see about getting them to pay their fair share!”

Then, at my nephew’s suggestion, I read Ehrenreich’s book, which had been initially published in 2001. Ehrenreich went “undercover” taking on the tasks and lifestyles of those who serve us, waiting tables at a coffee shop in Florida, cleaning houses for the well-to-do in Maine and stocking shelves at a Wal-Mart in Minnesota. She attempted to live on what she earned making rent payments, buying food, and covering all the costs we generally absorb without much thought. Along the way she met honest people who, though possessing next to nothing, would share that which they had. She observed cultures where in management sold services those employees were instructed not to deliver quite so well. She worked for the big corporation and for the littlest of Caesars. Although the reader knows she survives to tell the tale, at times we find ourselves wondering if she will. Hunger. Bodily breakdowns. Living quarters with no heat and or working locks – when not sleeping in the car.

I conclude: The forty-plus percent of the people who do not pay income taxes in this country do so because they don’t earn enough income to pay taxes on it.

EDWARD R. MURROW AND THE BIRTH OF BROADCAST JOURNALISM. Bob Edwards. (Formerly of NPR.) New York: Wiley and Sons. 2004. $19.95

Principles. We are exposed to so few of them in the media. Why? Because those who have found there is more money to be made if principles are ignored have convinced their viewer/listener base that only they have principles. Everyone else is lying. It’s a liberal media.

Two questions: What does the media have to gain by exposing corruption? What do the corrupt have to gain by controlling the media and its message?

Bob Edwards – a journalist who knows more than a little bit about delivering truth to power – reports: Nothing scared Murrow – not bombs, dictators, generals, members of Congress, sponsors, corporate executives or Joseph McCarthy. Murrow could not be muscled, bullied, bought, corrupted or intimidated. [Page 155.]

Edward R. Murrow looked evil in the eye and stared it down. Too few of us expect that from our news sources today. Too frequently we are convinced to concern ourselves with the labels someone else pinned on him, whether the candidate wears a flag on his lapel, whether his name sounds like the kid who sat behind us in Junior High, and what scandal our favorite media outlet has congered up. Morrow would have nothing of it. Morrow insisted that his boys report only the truth.

IN THE SECOND DECADE of the 21st century, we’ve been told we cannot trust the liberal media – interestingly almost all the time from one major media (well, cable media) source.

Poppycock. If Americans today:

• Lack the critical thinking skills or the simple will to see beyond the smoke screen;
• Care for preservation of personal well-being even in the face of evidence that our actions are leading to our own demise;
• Decide we cannot believe anyone who purports to deliver the news; and
• Convince ourselves that there is a man behind the curtain who cannot be trusted…

…then we deserve the decline in which we find ourselves.

Truth be told, print and broadcast journalists are honest folks like Mark Arax and Tim Egan and Barbara Ehrenreich and Bob Edwards. Each has a story to tell. Each does more than a day’s work to get the story out. Indeed, they are our country’s invaluable fourth estate.

But there is a “man behind the curtain” telling us otherwise. Like in Oz, we can almost glimpse him turning and manipulating and pushing smoke into our eyes – then he turns toward us and says, “Ignore that many behind the curtain.” Ed Murrow would find out who the bastard is, tear down that damnable curtain and expose him. Then, as a country, we could all stare him down.

And we’d be better off.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

CHRISTMAS THROUGH THE KEYHOLE

2011-12-22T16:58:00.000-08:00

…a cautionary tale about the office party

circa 196x…

CHICO’S KNIGHTS OF COLUMBUS HALL, even fifty years ago, was a cavernous old building. Exterior walls were washed white and the window trim was black. Inside, bare floor planking was worn from decades of dance events, potlucks, receptions and various and sundry gatherings. All the corners of the great hall were dark, especially those back of a stage partially hidden by an ancient maroon velveteen curtain.

Or was it forest green?

The doors from the main floor were white with blackened metal doorknobs, knobs that were always locked no matter how many times a curious little hand twisted and pulled to gain entry or simply peek inside. To be sure, looking through the skeleton keyholes, everything in the chambers beyond those doors was dark, mysterious and therefore, wonderful.

Even full of celebrants, the Knights of Columbus Hall smelled like old, cold dust. And once a year, just before Christmas, the place would teem with celebrants. Postal families – families of the guys who carried the holiday mail – gathered for cheer, for heaping plates of saucy spaghetti topped with a buttery slab of French bread, and for a visit with Santa.

The kids my age – sixish – and those both a little older and much younger, skated around the great hall, up and down the aisles between the alignments of oil-clothed tables sliding in stockinged feet, until one of us would pick up a painful sliver from the planking. There’d be a shriek. The injured party repaired to his or her particular mother who would remove the wood piece with surgical precision using only long, painted fingernails. Warned about the dangers of our frolic, we would not return to the skating activity for at least another five minutes.

During that recess, I would find Don VanMeter, the man who carried our mail, look up at him and say “Hello.” With a bottle of Miller High Life in one hand, he’d rub my burr-cut head with the other and say “Hello yourself.” Then I’d go find Glenn Walker, the neighbor who owned eight acres of almonds directly behind our place, also a letter carrier, and get similar treatment. Dad’s hiking buddy, Bill George responded in the same way as did the countless others who took this evening to eat and celebrate before returning to their holiday-heavy duties, ensuring that Christmas would arrive on time in Chico.

Dad’s closest work mate, Terrence, wasn’t on hand. I searched for him – he wrote little poems and gave them to kids – but I couldn’t find him.

When the bell rang for dinner, we all sat down, family style, on hard wooden benches pulled close to the long rows of tables. The postmaster stood up and offered thanks to the Lord while most of us kids nibbled at the sweet French bread until our respective mothers slapped our hands, glaring down at us as only mothers can. Next we’d dig into that saucy spaghetti having been admonished by the man who’d so recently been in conversation with the Lord: “San-tee Claus won’t come ‘til you’ve cleaned up your plate.”

An eternity passed while we ate the meal. Then, unexpectedly, the lights went out. An audible whoosh emptied the air from the room as everyone’s surprised breath sucked in. All was silent save for an infant or two. A tiny crease of light shown from beneath the velveteen curtain, and after a time appropriate for raising anxiety, the curtains split. There sat Santa. We cheered.

Santa read The Night Before Christmas. We then lined up – littlest ones first – to climb onto the stage and receive our presents from Santa and his helper: a peppermint stick, a naval orange, and a six-and-a-half ounce bottle of Coca Cola. Santa’s helper, Terrence’s “girl,” mom told us, hurried us off the stage so the line would keep moving.

Once back on the floor, the oldest of the boys would place penny bets about something embossed on the bottom of their soda bottles. I turned mine over, but was far more interested with what was inside. Some of the girls broke the ends off their candy canes and poked them through the rind of their naval oranges, using the candy as a straw to draw out the juice. The kids my age and younger just wandered about, trying to negotiate holding three precious gifts while walking across the slick wood floor in stockinged feet and grinning because we’d all just seen “San-tee Claus.”

Christmas was here.

ONE HOLIDAY, maybe four or five years on in this tradition, Dad announced to Mom that, “You should run along over to the Knights of Columbus and go ahead and enjoy yourselves.”

Dad wasn’t coming!

The hall was as big as ever, as dusty as ever, but somehow colder than usual this time. I sat on a bench next to Mom choosing not to ice skate on the wooden floor. I didn’t nibble at the French bread atop my mound of spaghetti while thanks was offered. I only wished that the postmaster would ask God to somehow send Dad to the party. I stabbed and twisted my dinner and let it grow cold.

Then the lights went out. When the curtain opened, before the kids lined up, I looked to my left where Mom was sitting, but she was gone.

Gone!

Now, too big to cry or yell out – the year prior, I’d won six or eight cents from the other boys because my Coke bottle had the word Louisville embossed on its bottom – I sat on the wooden bench like a stone. As the kids lined up to walk across the stage, it seemed that the room had grown colder. My eyes filmed over and I blinked to clear them. Why, I didn’t know. It’d just be a haggard procession of children getting a peppermint stick, an orange and a bottle of Coke. And Santa’s 'helper' would hurry them off the stage to keep the line moving.

Sitting among the long rows of tables, I was the only kid left on the floor. I swiped a finger across my eyes and watched. Immediately, I saw:

Mom was up there! Mom was San-tee Claus’s helper!

Like peering through a keyhole into a fully lit room, I understood a number of other things – frightening things, things steeped in a new and confusing reality.

After the procession, Mom brought me an orange, a candy cane and a Coke, which I consumed slowly but didn’t really enjoy. Once the hall was all cleaned up, we got in the car and drove home with Dad.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

2011: THE CHURCH OF THE OPEN ROAD'S YEAR IN REVIEW

2011-12-18T17:12:00.000-08:00

…in pictures

Dawn over the Olympics – New Years Day. [If you really have time on your hands, click on any of these pictures and it'll expand.]

January: Butte County’s historic Covered Bridge up there on Butte Creek.

Often pictured from the outside, here’s an additional shot from the inside. Very cool. Very old. And more wooden than even Nancy Pelosi or John Boehner.

Up Butte Creek Canyon, we wind through the county’s pot growing region. Did I say pot growing? I meant historic gold country. (Silly me.) The Beemer rests on the side of old Humbug Road heading up the slope toward Tuttletown.

Not all photographs come from the seat of a motorcycle. This sinister looking old willow is silhouetted against a setting sun beneath the waterline of a drawn-down Folsom Lake. Much to explore on those denuded hill sides.

February: A clear day invited the odd trip to the high country. Here, on State Route 20 east of Nevada City (Nevada County), we view the consequences of hydraulic mining 140 years hence.

March: An extended road trip in order, touring the Gold Country in and around Sonora. This shot finds us in Coulterville (Mariposa County)…

…then out to Monterey and back up the coast on State Route 1. In Santa Cruz, I was introduced to the Moto Guzzi Breva. As I left the Italiano bike shop there, a piece of my heart remained behind.

Up the road a piece, we outran this storm.

April: Back on the coast, practicing foul weather riding in and about the environs of Mendocino County north and east of Elk (nee Greenwood).

A lovely iris up that way, reminds us what spring is all about.

May: Back closer to the ranch, this old barn presents itself in El Dorado County on the road in toward Rattlesnake Bar on the south side of Folsom Lake. Nice State Park camping area out that way. Will it stay open?

June: A road trip finds us crossing Fandango Pass in Lassen County, tracing a portion of the California / Oregon border and again skirting a storm.

Dramatic view of Mount Shasta (Siskiyou County) at the conclusion of a 210-mile day – 120 of which were not paved.

I succumbed, bought a Guzzi, and took her up State Route 49 toward Downieville (Sierra County.) Certainly a most excellent shakedown for the little Italian number.

July: Table Mountain (Butte County) and a visit to the area’s other – unsung – covered bridge. Wonderful wildflowers up this way in early spring (not in July, however) and now, trails are set aside for hiking and viewing. No so, fifty years ago.

August: Duncan Peak Lookout invites a more-frequently-than-annual return. By personal decision, while this road calls, I always simply walk it. Great loop for hiking out of Robinson Flat (Placer County) for wives, kids, dogs, and fat ol’ guys such as myself.

The gentleman in the current tower bore witness that the lookout is not in its original location. He offered directions to the old site which I visited.

Early September: and another trip to the Coast is in order. Riding buddy crosses this historic Sonoma County bridge on his GS. Life does not get much better.

Our loop takes us from the Pacific Coast to the Cascade highland. Here is Mount Shasta as viewed from the old mill in McCloud, CA (Siskiyou County).

Abandoned rail cars are like an adult-sized playground for two restless boys on bikes. Here's a Maintenance of Way car for the old McCloud River Railway about 100 years short of rusting into oblivion.

Autumn and the California Delta calls, although the Delta affords great riding any time of the year. The Old Sugar Mill in Clarksburg (Yolo County) provides cover for several area wineries.

Nearby, a derelict lumberyard and an old oak tree compete for historic significance.

Fall, again, proves a great time to revisit the oft-overlooked areas of the Gold Country. This CCC era suspension bridge is on the old road to Iowa Hill (Placer County.)

Revisiting the stompin’ grounds of my youth, I find myself looking at a fiery black oak just over the hill from Mineral (off State Route 36 in Tehema County.)

Mistakenly I visited the localest of shopping areas in December. To cleanse my soul, I had to seek out this windy country road nearby.

o0o

Blast from the past: Circa 1984, I wore myself out after a 600 mile day and bedded down by the side of the road not knowing I would have the security afforded by the Malheur County Sheriff in Oregon. The little airhead was a durable bike as dependable as the sunrise, but the seat may have been engineered by the local pre-cast concrete folks.

o0o

Second runner up for shot of the year: An old saddle, perched for who knows how long, on a fence rail out back of the General Store up in rural Adin (Modoc County.)

First runner up: A coach parked on the old McCloud River Railway across from the town’s gracious hotel.

Shot of the year: I love this old hay barn adjacent to Goose Lake (Modoc County.) It speaks to our agricultural heritage, our agricultural future and to simpler times.

2012 breaks and I hope for two things: more adventures and the possibility of meeting you on the road.

Ride with care...

ON THROWING THE BASTARDS OUT

2011-12-16T14:18:00.000-08:00

Just the facts, Ma'am...

- Joe Friday

A SMALL WATER DISTRICT serving a tiny community in the Sierra foothills finds that its income doesn’t cover its costs. A plebiscite is placed before voters regarding a rate increase. It fails. Unable to make ends meet, the district manager shrugs: “Maybe we’ll have to close up shop.” Howls of protest follow. “This is just another example of big government taking our money!” “The unions sold us out!” [The water district employs six (6) people.] “The board members forgot where they came from!” “You’re just punishing the voters for telling you no!”

Digging deeper, one finds that a former iteration of the Board, concerned about providing a secure source of water, purchased a dam and the rights to the water reserved behind it. Knowing that their future constituency needed the water but the current constituency did not favor higher rates, the Board made no accommodation for paying for the purchase. New members elected to the Board pledged to continue to hold the line against rate increases. Once seated, reality sets in. An outstanding debt exists to pay for capital acquisitions and improvements to serve ratepayers who desire a reliable, uninterrupted source of water. But the rates don’t cover the costs and the Board can’t give the dam back. Confronted with the big picture, the Trustees are stuck: there is but one course of action.

Never in a position to garner all the facts or see the entire big picture, some ratepayers demand a more responsive board. They demand Board change. Again. And again. And again.

THE SAME SCENARIO PLAYS OUT in water districts, lighting districts, town councils and school boards across the country; and now, even Congress. Agenda-driven candidates are elected to positions at their own risk. Once sworn to “…defend the Constitution of the United States from all enemies foreign and domestic…” these new representatives find themselves in an unavoidable conflict between what they said they intended to do and what actually needs to be done. Myopic adherence to the narrow view that got the individual elected can sink the governmental organization. Acting responsibly to meet the needs of the entire constituency can sink a political career.

IN A REPRESENTATIVE DEMOCRACY, here’s how it works: As the electorate, we pay the elected to grasp the big picture. We understand and accept that the big picture is not something we have the advantage or privilege of seeing. Truth be told, we don’t want to see it. The big picture is often just too damned complex – except in the example of the water district where it’s pretty damned simple. Never-the-less, we expect our elected representative to get the big picture and then to make choices based upon the big picture.

Skewering, brow-beating, slandering, editorializing against or condemning a good person who has risen to a legislative position simply because her or she bases important decisions on an understanding of all the of facts, including those not available to us – that is, condemning someone for doing their elected duty – doesn’t add to the debate. Neither does it strengthen our democracy, contribute to getting work done in our school districts or our water districts nor make us look as if we paid attention in Civics class back in 12th grade.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

ROADKILL: THE DEMISE OF THE YEARLING

2011-12-12T21:00:00.000-08:00

THE YOUNG DEER – one who’d maybe just lost his spots – and his doe stepped right into traffic. I saw the whole thing as if it were in slow motion. Actually, it was slow motion, because I was in town, not on the highway, and I was neither on the BMW nor the Guzzi. Wouldn’t have mattered if I had been on a bike because, as I said, the whole thing happened in slow motion.

sciencedaily.com

NORTH AMERICA’S deer population resides in two emotional spaces at once. For many of us, they are graceful, placid creatures occupying a certain place in the meadow, the forest and the food chain. From a distance, we watch one ear twitch, then another. They raise their noses and, once they’ve caught our scent, they bounce out of harm’s way and then prance off into the brush. But for many of us they are vile vermin who graze in our gardens, wreaking havoc on our cucumbers, tomatoes, and strawberries. They crane upward and fetch our low hanging apples and pears. They drive the dog nuts.

And they step out into traffic as if they were here first. Exhibit A: Up highway 70 about fifteen years ago, one bounded in front of a pick-up fifth wheel combination and its entrails spattered across the front of the Mazda MPV my wife was using to pass the combo. Until we sold that vehicle, the van bore scars in its finish from the deer’s gastric acids. Exhibit B: On State Route 9 in Washington, a riding buddy, travelling at about 60 miles per hour, glanced momentarily at some Cascade arête. When he returned his focus to the road, it was too late – both for the deer and his expensive riding suit.

Still, the sight of a yearling grazing the mule’s ear in some pristine glade prompts pause and wonder and feelings of peace.

SONORA, CALIFORNIA is a foothill town whose roots are firmly planted in the Gold Rush. The old town site spans several small streams where pockets of gold were uncovered by miners from Mexico in the early days. The current water system still relies upon small dams and a network of ditches that course along the sides of area hills: a system set in place over 150 years ago. In this Central Sierra region, deer summer in the high country at places like Kennedy Meadows and Clark Fork. Come fall, they migrate down to the foothills; some sharing pasture land with horses and cattle, some living off the bounty of residents’ vegetable gardens and orchards. Sadly, the urban/forest interface is invisible. The path from food to water crosses pavement.

elementsvillage.com

Washington Street is Sonora’s main thoroughfare leading from the antique district up to the town’s signature Red Church. It is Sunday and there is not much traffic. Services ended early enough that the men folk could arrive home in time to gather beer and chips and settle in for the kick-off of the 49er game. Three or four streets join at this intersection: Washington, Elkins, Shaws Flat. Down the way a bit is the creek that runs next to the high school. I wait at the stop sign on Elkins at Washington Street because there is a little rise over which traffic flows on its way in from historic Columbia, perhaps at a clip a bit too great for the old downtown.

Looking across the intersection, my wife and I see the mama and her yearling, clippity-clopping across the pavement. The scene unfolds. They are in the crosswalk, but they are not watching. A car comes over the rise, but it is a vehicle from the other direction – a direction from which the deer are evident – that moves unabated. In the seconds before the inevitable, I wish I’d have yelled or sounded my pick-up’s horn, but as I said, things were happening in slow motion and that slow motion included me.

The doe is bumped broad side by the car and bounces away; the yearling is not so lucky. We see him tumble under the front wheel, his foreleg run over. The automobile didn’t stop. Perhaps the driver didn’t even feel the impact. Perhaps the driver understood deer as vermin. The little fella struggles to its feet and falls. Struggles some more and falls again. And again. Mother waits in the churchyard. Finally, the yearling finds its balance and hobbles – three little hooves operational, one dangling, helpless – next to the doe. They make it to the edge of Washington Street. By this time, I am out of my car, waving at traffic that creeps up to the scene. The animals cross the main street and head past my vehicle. I call 9-1-1 and animal control, but what I really want to do was intercept the little deer and hold on to him – hugging – hugging until the authority can arrive and dispatch the little guy. A second yearling comes to the scene; bounds recklessly across the street and the three of them make it up Elkins taking shelter somewhere in the woods just beyond the Aronas Women’s Club.

The police arrive. I point the direction and the young officer thanks me. (Privately, I wonder whether he simply returns to patrol because there is likely nothing he can do – it being a Wild Kingdom and all.)

Returning to the truck, I rejoin my wife who is reliving visions of Highway 70 and shaking with angst.

VERMIN OR PEACEFUL CREATURES, deer are living beings. Pity’s fingers wrap around my throat and hold on. For a long part of the drive home, I cannot speak.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

DOIN’ THE “COSTCO WALK”

2011-12-07T13:36:00.000-08:00

Takin' the Guzzi to the warehouse store...

A 56-DEGREE late autumn afternoon: the sky is clear and I need a break from the action. Aria, my black Guzzi Breva, has been idle in the garage for the better part of two weeks and she needs some loping moments on a back road. But on my agenda is a visit to the warehouse store where I am to pick up some photographs previously e-mailed in by my beloved for development.

I see this as an opportunity. I fire up the B-1100 and head over knowing that I can’t return home with a pallet of toilet paper or a fifty-five gallon drum of dry-roast mixed nuts since I can strap neither to the bike.

Also, given that this is a Tuesday afternoon, the outer reaches of the parking acreage – there are smaller countries in Europe – will provide a nice little laboratory for practicing some braking, cornering and maybe a slalom or two.

BAD THINKING. Forgotten in my logic is that this is the heart of the holiday shopping circus. Within a half mile of my destination, I begin to know what cholesterol must do to the circulatory system. Almost nothing is moving. Instantaneously I am blocked from the rear. I look at the long line of automobiles stretching ahead, behind and around suburban curves and rethink Carl Sagan’s use of the term “billions and billions.”

Twenty minutes elapse before I make it to the parking lot. No space is empty, even in the farthest reaches. Spaces only come available. The traffic line creeps. I feel more than vulnerable on my little bike. Shoppers departing back blindly from spaces in cars loaded to the headliner with cases of soda and bubble water and motor oil, bales of paper towels, multipacks of deodorants and shampoos, lugs of cantaloupes and gunny sacks of oranges or walnuts. Steel shopping carts the size of three-quarter ton pickup trucks drift driverlessly across the tarmac seeking the nearest low spot or newest new car to ding.

Individual drivers in search of a parking slot plant themselves in traffic lanes waiting while successful shoppers puzzle-piece their take into the back seats of now-surprisingly small full-sized Explorers and Suburbans. The whole world stops.

Once inside, the behaviors continue. Many customers engage in an activity known to me as “the Costco Walk.” Aisles in these stores are wide; ample room exists for folks to push their pick-up sized baskets or flats all the way to the back of the store unimpeded except when the come up behind someone engaged in the Costco Walk.

A Costco Walker moves very slowly if they move at all. When they aren’t moving, they position their cart at a 45-degree angle across the middle of the aisle. Typically, they aren’t perusing merchandise; they are engaged in conversation – many times loud – with a spouse or partner or sampling a food product. About the time I feel the need to say, “excuse me,” or to try to squeeze by, they begin to move. Too often, however, this is just a stutter step – a fake. They stop further in the aisle and continue their leisurely exchange. Shoppers back up in all directions. If the shopping carts came equipped with horns, I’m sure the store would sound like rush hour on Broadway in New York City. To be honest, the place could use a traffic helicopter hovering just over the twenty-foot high steel shelving racks. There seems to be congestion around cold medications. Emergency store employees are not yet on scene. To get to frozen foods, an alternate route would be…

I hang a left taking a narrow passage between discount books and discount socks/underwear. But toward the end of the alley, a Costco Walker is sampling Peruvian dried apricots. Someone pulls up right behind me and begins to thumb through the latest James Patterson novel. As in the parking lot ten minutes before, I am trapped, blocked, almost incarcerated. The rattle of carts, the nagging of partners, the impatience of children riding in baskets, the drone of holiday music – in short, the sounds of the commerce that makes this country great – begins to pound on me. I think of the classic horror movie trailer line: “What if you screamed but no one could hear you?”

I ARRIVE AT THE PHOTO COUNTER only to discover that the pictures are not ready. Developing services need to be prepaid and we hadn’t done that on line.

ONCE BACK ASTRIDE the Guzzi, I survey the parking area and flash upon the Demolition Derbies that used to be held at the end of the racing season at the Silver Dollar Speedway up in Chico when I was a kid. I think about the physics that will come into play should my beautiful Italian bike be broad-sided by an overloaded Dodge Ram 2500 and choose a route that will get me to the margins of the lot in the shortest order and with as few turns as possible. Once free, I don’t head home.

Six miles up the freeway, past the town of Lincoln, a beautiful country road stretches from the valley floor to the gold country foothills. It calls. There will still be autumn color, I know. There will be curves. There will be little traffic. The music I will hear will not entice me to consume - rather it will be music I select for myself. Aria, the little black Guzzi, will get in her lope.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

INNOVATION: TEN THINGS THAT CANNOT BE IMPROVED UPON

2011-12-06T12:18:00.000-08:00

Second in a series…

After a recent rant about our tendency to take a good thing and improve it until it doesn’t work anymore (the toaster, the telephone, micro-wave popcorn, the Mustang II), the Church of the Open Road asked readers to identify items or ideas that function perfectly as they currently exist. Following are some suggestions and some reasoning to support the suggestions:

A BABY’S GIGGLE: Nothing can lift one’s spirits like the sweet giggle of a baby discovering something that is completely mundane to us, but thrilling and endlessly amusing to them. (There’s a big lesson here.)

musicwithease.com

THE FRENCH HORN: The Horn can evoke joy and pain. It announces kings, serenades dancers and proclaims the hunt. It can be moody and dark and it can sing to the heavens at daybreak. Easily transported under one’s arm, only the most talented of musicians can master this beautiful instrument with its narrow windpipe, its sublime rotary valves and its blossom like bell. The supple caress of the player’s hand in that bell opens or mutes the Horn’s tone: matching mood with message, song with circumstance. Composers merely write music. The Horn breathes life into that music.

reocites.com

DANIEL DAY LEWIS: To which the Church must respond: Ingrid Bergman (in Casablanca.)

“TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALLGAME:” No song says carefree summer afternoons better, with hot dogs, sodas, line drives into the gap and close plays at home. Long a staple of the seventh inning stretch, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” has recently been replaced by “God Bless America.” Bad, bad move. “God Bless America” would make a far better anthem for this nation than the one we currently (cannot) sing. A move in this direction would return “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” back to its rightful place on languid summer afternoons. Let’s move on this.

boatrentalsfortlauderdale.com

THE SNORKEL: Over three quarters of the earth is covered in water. This simple device allows us access to a magical world – one just beneath the surface – a world that is at once beautiful and complex; violent yet peaceful; colorful but blue; and quiet. The snorkel opens our eyes to a different world and offers us opportunities to reflect on both the known and the mysterious.

cat-luck.blogspot

THE KITTEN: The kitten is lovely, warm, soft and gentle. Kittens share their gratitude with a soft purr, a raspy little lick and a constant desire to cuddle. Proof of the futility in trying to improve on something already perfect is supported by the reality that the vast majority of kittens grow up to become cats.

mysahana.org

THE RUBBER BAND: Endlessly useful, the rubber band is abused to suit our needs, returns to its form when we are finished and is willing to stretch to its very limitations in order to perform its duty. Simple. Inexpensive. Reusable. Biodegradable.

chestofbooks.com

THE HEN’S EGG AND THE BANANA (tie): Design experts have long suggested that the hen’s egg is the prefect design. Its form follows its function. Its shape lends itself (I suppose) to being expelled from the hen in (I suppose) the least painful manner. Its shell protects the precious cargo within, yet is easily enough chipped through when it is time for that cargo to be birthed.

clker.com

Similarly, the banana has a protective wrapper that is easily shed allowing access to a vitamin rich fruit that can be used on cereals, in milkshakes, in a daiquiri or eaten as is. Leave us not forget the banana peel’s comedic potential particularly when an unsuspecting Curly Joe Howard or Larry Fine might come traipsing down a well-waxed hallway.

zeitnews.org

THE ELECTRON: This tireless phenomenon holds atoms together, moves through wire to transmit energy, and can be manipulated to transmit ideas and make pictures. It can speed up and slow down and it never dies. It is the building block of life, and technology; and it holds the keys to both our heritage and our future.

clker.com

AN (A) EARLY MORNING with a (B) CUP OF FRENCH ROAST (another tie): These go hand in hand and function better when they are experienced in concert. Word of caution: you can’t decaffeinate a beautiful morning; so don’t try it with the dark roast.

Finally...

TRUE LOVE: ‘Nuff said.

o0o

Note: There were many excellent suggestions that didn’t fit into the ten-limit we’d set for ourselves – the Buck pocketknife, a good book, a wood fire on a cold night, a Hohner harmonica. All of these things seem simple in their design and in their function. Chances are a follow-up post will be in order. In light of that, the “Church” will continue to accept suggestions from readers.

INNOVATION: THEN, NOW… BUT…

2011-12-04T12:56:00.000-08:00

Improving on something until it doesn’t work anymore.

I picked up our bottle of Windex today. I squeezed and squeezed the trigger. No product came out. Upon investigation, I realized that the tip on the squirt portion – formerly round – was now square and needed to be turned 90 degrees in order for fluid to be dispensed. This I did. I also had to reattach the tube running to the bottom of the bottle that had blown itself off as I squeezed the constricted trigger. All of which prompts:

THEN: I’d help mom dry mop and then wet mop the floor using a raggedy assemblage of yarn, bound by a woven fabric strip and clamped using real sprung steel onto a long smooth dowel called a mop handle. The dry mop would collect the kitten hair, dust bunnies and leaves we’d tracked in. The wet mop would pick up the breakfast crumbs and dust and grit that had followed on our feet. After a good going over, the kitchen linoleum was clean and good for another week of activity.

NOW: I use a long handled device with a plastic panel to which a dry cloth or a wet damp cloth may be attached using Velcro. The wet cloth works best when, instead of water, I squirt a chemical film – provided by the mop maker – across the floor before methodically wiping it up.

BUT: Those Velcro connection points have a limited lifetime and soon, the unit must be replaced. And, if the dog happens to lick the floor before the cleaner is fully dried, an expensive trip to the vet may ensue.

THEN: I toasted bread in a toaster that accommodated two slices. A knob on one end allowed me to adjust the degree of toastedness. A simple push of a little lever snapped the toast into the thing and the toast automatically popped up when it was done.

NOW: I own a toaster in which I can also bake a pie. I can roast potatoes and heat leftovers. I can thaw frozen fish. I can even put a whole chicken in there.

BUT: About six weeks into ownership – in my instance – the computer module gave up. Sure, I got a replacement – covered under warranty – but the warranty didn’t offer me a warm and crisp English muffin to go with my coffee and banana the morning the damned thing crapped out. And I wonder where the defective model ended up.

THEN: I could turn on (boot) my little Macintosh computer, wait a few seconds, and once the thing warmed up, begin typing a story. The bulbous machine was small with about a 13” screen and fit nicely on my restricted work area. When I hit “tab,” the thing indented, when I hit “return” it didn’t. The nice little machine wasn’t any smarter than me. It worked and I loved it.

NOW: I own a computer that can do wondrous things: It can access information from anyone at any time. It can play movies that I didn’t see at the theatre. It can even put the postal service out of business.

BUT: It is damned difficult to sit down and type a thought without the distraction of auto indent, auto cap, auto this and auto that. I can’t type dialogue as dialect without having the damned thing correct for spelling. I choose to indent in one situation and it wants to indent every time I hit “return.” It corrects for “widows” and “orphans” so eagerly that I’ve given up donating to Catholic charities. Often, in the midst of a good story line or thought, the computer “fixes” something and, in my efforts to counteract the default fix, the thread is lost.

THEN: I could pick up the phone and dial.

NOW: I can pick up the phone and dial if I have coverage.

THEN: I could buy a refrigerator and, although I had to defrost it regularly, it’d last twenty-five years.

NOW: I can buy a frost-free model that may last seven or eight.

THEN: I could go to the bank and pick up a twenty.

NOW: I can go to the bank for cash so long as my account hasn’t been hacked.

THEN: I could twist a screw if the old Honda 90 or R-65 BMW idled too slowly.

NOW: Well, the bike never idles too slowly. But it used to be (before tubeless motorcycle tires) I could fix a flat and depend on the repair for the life of the tire.

MAKE NO MISTAKE: innovation is, indeed, a good thing. Where would we be without it? Our houses would be colder; our vehicles: far less efficient; our water and air: more polluted; our communication: less instantaneous. Where design follows function – the hammer, the cast iron skillet, the wooden pencil, the afore mentioned banana, the hen’s egg, the boxer motor (or the vee-twin), the Airstream, the wind-tunnel designed Avanti – the user is usually satisfied with the result.

However, innovation for innovation’s sake (or worse - marketing's sake) produces stuff like Microwave popcorn, the Vege-matic, the BetaMax, the Mustang II and “New” Coke. Perhaps included also should be: the plastic shopping bag [paper used to work] and the disposable water bottle [drinking fountains used to work, too.]

No, I’m not for blowing us all back into the nineteenth century, but when I pick up something that I need to use or consume right now, I’d like it to work well or taste good. Bigger, faster, lighter, more convenient and/or slicker looking seems to get in the way of that too frequently.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

MY DARLING [LAKE] CLEMENTINE

2011-11-28T21:58:00.000-08:00

THE LEADING EDGE of December turned out to be a sixty-degree day. Whether or not this was a weather mirage – the Tule fog common to the area never showed up this morning – I would take advantage and ride smack into the middle of autumn. It was the GSA’s turn for a run so I saddled up and went looking for fall.

BEFORE RETURNING to motorcycling, I built a kayak from a kit. My Pygmy “Golden Eye” is light, stable, and maneuverable; plus, the mahogany plywood makes her a real looker.

John Lockwood; (c) Pygmy Boats

The story goes that John Lockwood, the developer of Pygmy Kayaks, was an outdoorsy sort who endured a tragic construction accident – one which left him with limited mobility from the waist down. Resourceful gentleman that he is, Mr. Lockwood used his computer savvy to create a lightweight vessel that proved to be quite seaworthy. He could return to the wilderness – sometimes for months at a stretch(!) – and along the way, so could many of the rest of us. The maiden voyage of my Pygmy Kayak was on Lake Clementine.

A LUSCIOUS SINGLE-LANE STRIP of pavement leads to Lake Clementine from Foresthill Road, east of Auburn, California. This day, the damp, shaded curves are blanketed in slick, fallen leaves, the likes of which I’d hope to photograph while still on their trees. A break in the forest cover affords a nice view of the North Fork Dam, a debris dam built in 1939 to mitigate the unnatural flow of mining detritus from 90 years prior. There being no outlet at the bottom of the dam, water simply fills the basin and cascades over the top. The good news for kayakers is that never do they find a “bathtub ring.” The area foliage always grows right down to the water’s edge.

Ample parking greets the boater or skier or fisherperson. I find an inopportune place and hike down to the boat ramp. While a couple is loading a pair of kayaks onto the roof of a Honda Pilot, I think about how little attention my Pygmy has received since I re-entered the realm of motorcycling.

A view from the dock offers a find view of the top of the North Fork Dam. The still water has that mirror-like quality that paddlers long for. The reflection of the south facing canyon wall is picture perfect.

Looking eastward, a small seasonal marina is located a few yards away. Just around the bend from that, I recall from a paddle trip some ten years back, is a maple with flaming red leaves. Somewhere I have a slide of the tree and its mirror image. Somewhere. Can’t get to it now without a boat.

Wandering about the parking areas, I do find some fall colors still clinging to a Freemont Cottonwood.

In a drier micro-environ, a red-berried Toyon invites pause.

WITH A BIT OF LATE AFTERNOON sunlight remaining, I wind back up the canyon wall and find a spot beyond the pool to peer into the depths of the North Fork Canyon.

Along the crest of the ridge, black oak leaves still hold, but with the next cold storm, surely will cover the pavement; ancient trees again waiting for a spring thaw and the promise of renewed life.

All in all, a satisfying ride for a day when normally one would only dream about the road. I head home thinking that I must rescue that beautiful mahogany craft from its sad and dusty mooring in my garage and, again, venture to the far reaches of Clementine.

RESOURCES:

Pygmy Boats – beautiful kayak kits that draw little water but many, many appreciative glances. If I can build one, believe me, anyone can! More details at www.pygmyboats.com

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

WHILE RIDING ON THESE COOLER DAYS

2011-11-24T08:35:00.000-08:00

Baby, it’s cold outside.

- Johnny Mercer

WHEN THE DAILY HIGH temps only rise to the 50 to 55 degree range, only the intrepid can be found enjoying the highways and back roads on two wheels.

Out state route 128 past Winters, there are few if any motorcyclists this day. The fifty-degree air slices through my layers. Every square centimeter of my being feels the chill – except for the middle finger on my right (throttle) hand which cannot feel anything at all and won’t until I stop for a cup of coffee at the café located junction of 128 and 121. Here I would thaw out the digit by simply placing it in the steaming coffee, until such time as I received feedback that feeling had returned.

A fellow in riding gear was finishing a burger and ordering a slab of apple pie. His V-Strom was parked outside, now with my GSA beside it.

The usual questions ensued. “Where you going?” “Where you out of?” “How long you been on the road?” “Any route recommendations?”

The gentleman told me that this was his third V-Strom. First one had been a 650. He wanted more power so after 40,000 miles, he traded for a 1000 model, which he summarily crashed after hitting a water hazard just up the road from this café. Opted for his current 650 since Suzuki wasn’t importing the bigger model. “It isn’t my only bike, however,” he confessed. This explained the Harley garb we wore while touring on the Japanese bike. “My Street Glide’s parked in the garage right now.”

I shared that I, too, had a second bike – a beautiful little black Guzzi.

He swallowed a bite of apple pie and washed it down with some coffee. “Kinda makes you sad, doesn’t it?”

I shook my head, unclear of his drift.

“The second bike.” He motioned with his fork. “Sitting at home and missing all this.”

I thought about the Breva isolated in my cold and darkened garage and nodded.

He said, “They know, you know.”

“Yep. I suppose they do.”

TEMPERATURES IN THAT LOW 50 range effect photos in a bad way. The pictures become non-existent. Inside the heavily insulated winter gloves, my hands are warm and my digits relatively mobile, with the exception of that one finger. I know that removing the gloves to fetch the camera will end with me slipping once-warm hands into once-warm-but-no-longer-warm gloves. Thus, rather than stop to record the flaming Big Leaf Maples or Black Oak leaves, or the row upon row of wine varietals – each changing hue consistent with their lineage and micro-location in the vineyard – I whisk by thinking perhaps I can resort to using words on a keyboard once I’ve found shelter for the evening.

Pictures would have been a good idea. My hands ultimately developed that chilled stiffness anyway, so I may as well have stopped now and then. By not doing so, I aligned no electrons to depict the rolling hills mostly covered in chemise, but blocked, in select places with cultivated vines. I didn’t pixilate the muted colors under a pewter blanket of cloud, nor the flaming cabernet, pinot and zin leaves against a deep azure sky where the sun had melted those clouds. I didn’t catch the remnant moisture from yesterday’s storm rising as mist aside a forested hill. I missed the golden English walnut leaves and the spare, spindly pear branches reaching skyward, already devoid of foliage; and the Victorian set back from the road in a cluster of pecans and mulberries; and the red barn with a corner of rusted corrugated roof peeling away. Also not photographed for posterity: the Great Blue standing at the edge of a gray pond; the placid water under a Napa River bridge; the small convention of geese gathered on some farmer’s front lawn; or the Spanish moss over the graceful curves of the still damp Silverado Trail. In general, of the elements that define the ride, none were captured.

I guess if I’d stopped for one photo op, I’da stopped for a bunch more. Darkness would have settled in and, along with that darkness, an even deeper cold. Maybe I’m just not intrepid enough to both ride and take snapshots.

OVER THE MEADOW and through the wine country, I would see and spend a couple of nights with granddaughter and her new seven-week-old brother. Perhaps I had reason to hurry. Perhaps not.

In any event: no pictures. At least, not of the ride this time.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

AN INCIDENT AND A CLOSE CALL (OR TWO)

2011-11-22T11:49:00.000-08:00

…there but for the grace of God…

Mom, circa: yesterday

TOY-RUN TRIP-UP: On this chilly November morn, a charitable group of cruiser riders were out collecting toys for the less fortunate. I saw hundreds of them roaring in the opposite direction from me on I-80 east of Sacramento. They looked a bit like lemmings. Normally, I wouldn’t make such a comparison, but between Greenback and Madison, one of them had veered into the concrete barrier of the center divide and I pictured three or four more may have followed. The stout concrete wall that divides east and westbound lanes provided no indication of impact – at least on my side of the freeway. In most any collision, I know, the concrete infrastructure wins.

Emergency crews were just arriving, gently pushing their fire trucks and meat wagons through a clump of fellow riders who were milling about the fast lane, undoubtedly shocked by the unfortunate incident. Further on, I noted a weaving CHP unit calming traffic upstream from the event. Very professional. Very practiced. Very it-happens-all-the-time.

When riding in a group, it seems too easy to concentrate solely on the rider in front of you rather than the whole picture. The incident reminded me that I was glad to be riding solo this day, as usually I do. Still, I had to offer a few words up for the individual(s) laying crumpled on the tarmac a few miles back.

ANTIQUES ROAD SHOW: Soon I found myself west of the Sacramento River. Fifteen or twenty minutes had elapsed and I was still flashing back on the difficulties the charity cruisers had experienced. Just west of Davis, I planned to route myself north on State Route 113 and cut west to Winters where I would pick up State Route 128. Ahead, a small flatbed truck occupied my lane. Ladened with a motley assortment of rusted relics appearing to be from the gold rush – a monitor nozzle, portions of a steam donkey, an ore cart, various rolls of wire – the overloaded vehicle should have been puttering along a lane or two further to his own right. Or, better yet, on the frontage road.

With the split for the 113 less than a mile ahead, I gave some thought to blasting past him on his right, a practice I cuss about when others do this. Instead, I opted for a legal and quick pass to his left knowing that if I timed things with care, I could ease into the exit lanes without cutting the old boy off. While passing, I noted the 80s era Ford, a three-quarter ton chassis with its pickup bed removed, was little more than a jalopy itself. The rusty load seemed loosely secured. The driver’s side window sported a large spider-web crack. The filmy windshield looked as if it hadn’t been seen Windex and a washrag since its last day at the showroom.

Goosing the big Beemer’s throttle, I allowed my fellow traveler adequate space before merging across his lane and onto my exit. A glance in my rearview mirror found a lashing dangling loose on the passenger side of the rig. And at that moment, some rusted component of our glorious gold rush history came crashing onto the freeway, rolling, spraying and skittering across I-80’s two right hand lanes.

I thought about the lemmings from twenty minutes back and realized I’d come within yards, seconds and one bad decision short of becoming one myself. The I realized: Luck of the draw being what it is, the rope on the left side could just as easily given way and, there’d I’d be, on the pavement, tangled up with history, waiting for the very professional, the very practiced, the very it-happens-all-the-time emergency crews to scrape up my sorry…

FINALLY, since loved ones may read this post, I won’t mention the cinder block sized chunk of slate that had broken free of the cut bank on route 128 during the previous night’s storm. It had positioned itself in my lane just beyond what should have been a delightful curve. Due to cold November temperatures and my desire to get to point B rather hurriedly, I eschewed my usual break at Monticello Dam. The sedimentary chunk was less than two miles further on, encircled by smaller bits of debris. Employing the Beemer’s ample antilock brakes, I slowed precipitously missing both the boxcar sized rock and the suicidal deer who happened to choose this moment to dart across the road a few yards beyond.

Oh, mom, I'll be a safe rider!

Me, to mom, circa 1970

on the occasion

of my purchase of
my first Trail 90

as a teenager.

10 QUESTIONS FROM THE CHURCH OF THE OPEN ROAD

2011-11-19T10:28:00.000-08:00

… more purging of the pocket notebook…

I keep a notebook in my pocket while riding and gleaned from it these ten questions that came to mind while in the saddle going somewhere:

HOW LONG is an eon?

WHEN DID TOSSING litter out the window regain acceptance? [Corollary: When did leaving your shopping cart in the space next to where you parked become acceptable practice?]

WHAT DOES THIS FELLOW now know that the rest of us have yet to figure out?

WHY IS not being truthful all-of-the-sudden acceptable? [And to whom did Jesus lie?] [Corollary: If Rush can lie, why can’t I?]

A GUYS LIFTS a newspaper box, hauls it to a remote location, chisels open the coin box and retrieves a few quarters. What turns out to be his hourly rate?

WHEN SCIENCE CONFLICTS with Scripture, which one wins?

WHO ELECTED Grover Norquist to anything and why does anyone pay attention to him? [Corollary: Who elected Karl Rove?]

SPORTS ENCOURAGES development of character, we’re told. Specifically, what kind?”

UNDER WHAT CIRCUMSTANCES might bigger not be better?

HOW LONG did this oak live and how long it will stand as a monument to itself?

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

SHOPPING SEMI-LOCALLY

2011-11-09T11:45:00.000-08:00

Trying to shop locally in a corporate-consumer landscape…

SHOP LOCAL. Shop the independent. In the ‘burbs surrounding the greater Sacramento area, this is not easily accomplished. Near my neighborhood lies the greatest money vortex anywhere in these western United States. At the corner of Galleria Boulevard and Roseville Parkway rest three shopping complexes, each home to several large and small corporate outlets. Penneys. Macys. Nordstrom. Williams Sonoma. Pottery Barn. REI. Another Macys. Staples. PetSmart . Or is it PetCo? Barnes and Noble. Simply driving through the area, one feels money being sucked not from their wallets, but from their very pores. At least I do. A look at just two of these majors, Lowes and Home Depot, reveals that neither offers anything that can’t be found at the other. So with all the choice comes no real choice.

The number of locally owned independent booksellers has crashed over the past decade or so. Brought about by growth in big-box bookers like Barnes and Noble and the late Borders; and by the upswing in on-line retailers like Amazon, finding a locally owned bookshop is becoming nigh on impossible. As a frequent visitor to the Grass Valley / Nevada City area, a stroll down both of their main streets reveals one in each town. A trip to the Northern California Independent Booksellers Association website: http://www.nciba.com reveals exactly where to find these holdouts from a less corporate time. Nearby Sacramento and Davis have a couple. Roseville and Rocklin have none. (Friends Susan and John Russel own one of the go-to businesses in all of Tuolumne County – The Mountain Bookshop.)

I GIVE NEW COPIES OF BOOKS I’ve recently read as gifts for others. Whether the recipients read them or simply pass them on is of no matter. In my mind, I’m keeping a writer alive and helping an independent bookseller. Since my proclivity is to hop on the motorcycle and head for the hills, I find most of my trade occurs at the Book Seller in Grass Valley. Here, the old downtown building is stacked high with all manner of books from best sellers to obscure titles to more from that author you thought you’d read all of. Browsing provides a respite from the rapid fire pace and traffic of the 21st century and the rather dim lighting and the closeness of the shelves makes everything feel warm and intimate. The big-box bookers attempt this but rarely succeed.

WHILE RETURNING from making my annual Christmas gift order, I began to wonder about other local businesses I frequent. Sadly, I could think of few. The local hardware store in Loomis closed a couple of years back, not because they were pushed out but because, after 47 years, the family’d had enough. There’s a nice fruit stand at the old packing shed in Loomis that I frequent when I think about it – a place with great actually-ripe produce. My cigar guy is local, as is a great roadside hamburger stand – also in and about Loomis. And I’ve found a haberdashery in Roseville that sells 501s, Pendletons, and products from Woolrich and Arrow (Geo. Custer wore their shirts) and Red Wing. All of the motorcycle shops I frequent that sell both bikes and gear are independent. With each transaction, I know some of my cash is going to a local guy who will, in turn, spend it locally.

But it’s tough to find an independent grocer in my area or a non-Seven-Eleven. My gas comes from Chevron, my sundries from Longs (headquarters in Walnut Creek before they became CVS), my major food purchases: Raleys (West Sacramento), my car tires: Les Schwab (LaPine, OR) – although independents are available for tires, my hardware: one of the local Ace franchisees.

I THINK I’VE FOUND that in city neighborhoods like the College Avenue area of Berkeley, the Sunset in SF, the Fabulous 40s in Sacramento and a block or two off Broadway in New York City, there are hole-in-the-wall independents that the locals walk to and patronize. Similarly, in those towns you’d live in if you’d didn’t live in the town you have to live in: towns like Grass Valley, Fort Bragg, Sonora, Healdsburg – there are hundreds of them – the market share is too small to support a big box. Thus patronizing the small businessman is just part of what the citizenry does. That is, until the math finally somehow works out for the big box. Then it is up to the people to continue to support the local guy, the guy who takes your money and turns it over in the community, or the local guy is lost. And with him, so goes the community itself.

MY GOAL is to someday move from the ‘burbs and, in writing this, I think I now know why. In communities where independent retailers thrive, so thrive those communities.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

o0o

THE CHURCH OF THE OPEN ROAD FREQUENTS:

For Books:

The Book Seller (Grass Valley) http://thebookseller.biz/

The Mountain Bookshop (Sonora) http://mountainbookshop.com/

For Eats:

Bankok City (Rocklin) http://www.rocklinthai.com/ - Great Thai with unique and special sauces. Owner present at all times. Sells only locally produced wines.

Blue Goose Produce (Loomis) www.bluegooseproduce.com - Locally grown fruits and vegetables in season; local jams and preserves; fresh bread from Auburn; sustainably raised beef and lamb; and pies! In the packing sheds next to the tracks. Very, very, very local.

La Fornaretta (Newcastle) http://www.lafornaretta.com - Fun Scilian cuisine. Owner always present. Ran into Paul Newman here a few years back.

Monte Vista Inn (Dutch Flat) http://www.montevistainn.com/ - Located only a mile or so from where the Big Four signed Theodore Judah on to engineer the crossing of the Sierra by the Central Pacific.

Old Town Café (Grass Valley) on Mill Street - oldest continuously operating eatery in town. Owner a wonderfully hard working guy who's always there.

Placer Grown (Placer County) http://placergrown.org/

Taylors Drive-in (Loomis) on Taylor Road - No self-respecting hamburger joint would have a website.

For Goods:

Grace Jr. Gifts (Chico) on Fifth Street between Salem and Normal - unique to all the world. Honest.

Richardson’s Men’s Wear (Roseville) at Roseville Square on Douglas Blvd. - Ask the owner what happened to the stuffed Golden Eagle that used to be in the window.

Tobacco Republic (Loomis) http://www.trcigar.com/ Okay. Maybe "goods" is the wrong word here. Perhaps the best selection of cigars in all of the Sacramento area.

For Bikes and Gear:

A&S Powersports (Roseville) http://www.aspowersports.com/

Elk Grove Powersports (Elk Grove) http://www.egpowersports.com/

Good Times Motorcycles (Sacramento area) http://www.sacramentomotorcycles.com/

Ozzie’s BMW Center (Chico) http://www.ozziesbmwcenter.com/

Roseville Yamaha (Roseville/Rocklin) http://www.roseville-yamaha.com/

SINGLE USE TIRES?

2011-11-08T09:23:00.000-08:00

The joys and disappointments of tubeless motorcycle tires

DON’T GET ME WRONG. I love how the Michelin Road Pilot II tires have fixed the handling on my Breva 1100. The little “Bee” came with Metzeler Roadtec Z-6s that had gone about half the distance between new and worn out. And the Zs were always my go-to choice on the BMWs I’d owned. Yet, on the Guzzi, these chattered unnervingly as I entered curves, prompting me to wonder about the geometry of the Breva.

New rubber and ready to roll!

At the recommendation of folks on the Wild Goose Chase Forum, I switched to the Road Pilots, and what a difference. The wonderful winding roads in our area invite frequent visits and those visits are made all the more enjoyable when one can concentrate on the environment just as much as the pavement. With my new Pilots I found that the Breva dives into the curves and pulls out confidently. I’m not afraid to goose the Goose a bit as the tractable qualities of the rear ask me to push my own limits. [Note: I’ll never have the fortitude to actually push the limits of the bike.]

Heading toward snowline!

Since putting the Michelins on the Guzzi, I find myself looking for excuses to ride the Breva, often leaving the BMW GSA (which sports Metzeler Tourances) simpering in the garage. I’ve enjoyed and re-enjoyed narrow strips of pavement through the Sacramento River Delta, the American and Yuba River complexes and, before the snow flew, up to the heights of the nearby Sierra – always returning home wishing there’d been a bit more daylight, a bit more time to not only relish the autumn colors and great roads, but the joyous physics of simply riding a great machine with really good rubber.

On Drum P'house Road

THEN… I’d run about four hundred miles on the Michelin’s when, coming out of the Bear River west of Drum Powerhouse, rounding a corner at a very conservative speed, a large piece of cardboard lay in the roadway. The conditions were damp, so rather than to try to avoid it, I simply drove across. A week later, I pulled the bike off the centerstand to find the rear tire squishing across the smooth concrete of my garage floor. Flat. I’d picked up a box staple somewhere, and I suspect it from that cardboard on the Drum Powerhouse Road. Damn!

Damnation!

EVERYTHING I’VE READ about tubeless tires says that once they’re punctured, a roadside fix is only temporary. I suppose this is because the those physics that are so enjoyable when things are going well, are so treacherous when things are not: the heat generated by the constant friction with the road; the twist and flex necessary to maintain control; the variable torques of acceleration and deceleration. A plug can get you to the shop, but an ignored plug can get you to the “news of record” in the local paper under the listing “traffic fatalities.”

So, the Breva sits in the garage now waiting for an appointment to put a new skin on the back hoop. A couple of hundred bucks later, I’ll be on her on the road exploring the river levees and canyons and oak woodlands of Northern California’s late autumn.

IN THE MEANTIME, I’ll enjoy some high-quality rides on the GSA, cranking her heated grips and soothing her neglected feelings...

Quick! Get the crime scene tape!

...and wondering where the heavy-duty box stapler came from that I found on the garage floor sitting next to the Beemer’s front wheel and pointed directly at the Breva.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

REMEMBRANCE

2011-11-03T14:14:00.000-07:00

Forester Gil Murray

DURING MY BRIEF TENURE as principal at Chester Elementary School I was, perhaps, the only person in town who had not been touched by Gil Murray. A year before I was appointed, Mr. Murray left home to assume the position listed in the plaque. Many, many somber days passed after he opened the Unabomber’s awful package in his office in Sacramento.

Gil was a Little League baseball coach, an ardent steward of the environment, and much loved in the community of Chester. I regret two things: That I never met the man and his untimely and uncalled for demise.

This little monument is located in Deer Creek Meadows on the old Lassen Trail a few yards west of Highway 32.

FITTING THAT WE SHOULD CONSIDER what we believe to be important and how we choose to express it.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press