11/23/2005 11:46 PM
A couple of my friends have put together a three-day ride from the Reno area to Las Vegas for the last few years, and this year I was finally able to go. The ride originally was conceived by one of the riders, Blane, as a fund raiser for a program at a non-profit he worked at (Blane would acquire basket-case dirt bikes and then help kids rebuild them to the point where they could use them to learn to ride). When it ran its course as a fund raiser, two friends of mine, John and Kevin the owners of Premier Homes, kept it going as a trip for friends to ride and spend time together. They and the owner of Roseville Yamaha took over the organization of a team with a couple support vehicles and the hotel reservations for each night. This year was the first opportunity I had where I both felt well enough and could match my schedule so that I could go. As it turned out, the arrival in Vegas for this year’s ride coincided with the Endurocross, so we made last minute plans to catch that.
So, last Wednesday evening I joined 11 other riders and three guys as support heading up to Virginia City, southeast of Reno, for an early morning start the next day. Virginia City, the site of the classic grand prix, is an old mining town turned tourist attraction in the Nevada high desert above 6,000 feet. It was cold come dawn, but clear and the weather promised to be perfect throughout the ride -- cold, but not too cold (in the day -- more on that later), and clear so that those 100-mile vistas the desert offers would be stunning the whole trip. The mix of guys was terrific; most I knew already, but four men I met for the first time. Of those, Gary and Eric were from up in the Auburn/Foresthill area, where people ride out their front doors to miles of trails. They were excellent riders, Gary especially and, honestly, a genius about bikes. Mark is a doctor and riding for only his third time; the guy was a stud and learned and improved more quickly than anyone I can remember. The fourth guy I met for the first time was Steve Lawler, whom some here may know because Steve (who is now with Bombardier) was with Yamaha for 25 years and must know just about everyone in the industry. An incredibly nice, humble guy, Steve is an outstanding and generous rider (also an accomplished jet ski competitor). Throughout the ride, the group would be talking about bikes and Steve would share stories that made me feel 20 years younger because they brought back great memories of the sport I love so much. And Steve has worked and ridden with some of the best, so they were pretty good stories.
It was such a privilege to get to know each of these guys, as well as the support team. The others in the riding group -- Jeff, Greg, Mike, Kevin, John and Sean were already established riding buddies (and very good riders). Every one of the group reinforced how great it is to be with good motorcycle people. It was a real privilege to ride with them.
We left at 7:30 Thursday morning, dropping down from Virginia City to the town of Dayton and across the highway to begin crossing over the mountains to Smith Valley. Almost immediately we hit a 10 mile stretch of nasty desert-rock jeep trail. (Mark got a rough introduction to riding rocks, but throughout the first day he absorbed advice input and adapted immediately. The guy rode great.) Eventually the rocks gave way to decent dirt road as we crested the summit and dropped into Smith Valley. There, we hit wide improved dirt roads; time for some speed! Roll it on out of the turns and make like Dick Mann with the back end easing out under power. That took us to paved road for a short jaunt to our first gas stop in Smith. A few of out bikes are dual sported (we were about an even split of KTM 450/525 and Yamaha 450s, with Blane on a 610 Husky), so the higway was a bit of a fudge for some. Low and behold, following us into the gas station was the Sheriff. He could of lowered the hammer, but was very cool about it. He admonished us to go a bit slower by the school, and then went on his way.
From there we headed south toward Pine Grove, through familiar terrain I’ve ridden many times. The trails were wide, sandy single track and rough two-track (Nevada is loaded with two-track that is more parallel trails than road, often very rough, washed out, or rocky.) We dropped down from that to a wide dirt road heading south, and it was again time for some speed. Geared as I was, flat out in sixth got me about 90 mph (according to GPS), and we cooked for a mile or two until the lead riders had shut down. Steve’s bike had an oil leak. John then came up to me and asked it I had an exhaust leak because something was venting from down near my pipe on the right side of the bike when I passed him. I looked down and the left side of my 525 was covered with oil from the foot peg back. A rock had found its way to the nook where the sight glass for oil is located on the side case and shattered the glass. We were about forty miles from the nearest town. Yikes!
Improvisation time. Blane, who is very funny and may have the quickest wit of any man I’ve ever met, loves these situations. Within a short time we’ve got a quarter pressed into the seal to replace the glass and its covered with epoxy. In the meantime, we are on the outskirts of the Hilton Ranch (that Hilton, and it’s reputed to be in the area of a million acres), and two of the group head off to see if they can get some oil. A friendly caretaker, who tells them a bit about the ranch and the area, obliges with a quart of Castrol 20/50. (Okay -- and we all wanted to know -- so he answers that, no, Paris doesn’t make it out there.) The 525 took about 3/4 of the quart, and the remainder went to Steve’s bike. The fix was perfect, no problems going forward; I count myself lucky we shut down when we did and I didn’t grenade a dry motor. The only downside is that my back brake pads are oil soaked and I have to deal with no and, later, marginal rear brakes for the remainder of the trip (which makes for some memorable moments on rocky downhills!).
But we are down an hour at least, which sets back our schedule. Fortunately, the track from then on remains on good dirt road, with a section of nasty two-track thrown in, for the next couple hours. It is beautiful country, rolling high desert foothills leading up into the mountains through groves of piñon pine. I am distracted though, because I am still acclimating to no rear brake and am not yet at rest that my engine has come through unscathed, so it is hard to fully take in how beautiful the country we’re passing through is.
We cross another mountain range. It’s cold and there is evidence of recent snow in the pass. We drop down to the highway south of Hawthorne just before four in the afternoon to gas up and, late, for our lunch stop. The sun sets, it is getting very cold, and there is 40 miles to Tonopah, our destination. I am still worried about my bike, tired after a 180 miles of riding, and feel primed to make a mistake if I push it. Faced with a ride by lights over, which I’ve never done, over terrain I’ve never seen, I choose to sit it out and join half the group in loading up to drive around the next section to the outskirts of Tonopah. This frees the remaining riders to, who are good, experienced folks, to engage the adventure of 40 miles at night. Those guys head off, and we make the loop around to meet them.
An hour later we pull into the rest stop outside Tonopah to wait on them. It’s a bit surreal because I have vivid memories of being in this same spot back in the 60’s when our family car-camped throughout the west during summers and we stopped here on different occasions. Just memories that come back vividly for no special reason. After some time we see light begin to dance in the darkness as our friends emerge from the hills. They are some miles distant and it is a long time before we can hear the bikes and they finally come in. The trip has been uneventful, bit for a stretch of silt and the cold. And the remarkable experience of coming across wild horses, whose silhouettes track them in the dark for a bit before they turn off and disappear. We load the remaining bikes at about 8 and head to our hotel to rest before another long day, Friday, which also is my 48th birthday.
The morning greets us in Tonopah with another cold, clear day. We swap out dirty oil filters, Gary upgrades the stator in John’s bike, and we leave the hotel in pairs, idling through town to keep the noise down on the way to the trailhead. We head out south toward another mountain miles through dirt roads, sand washes, and rough two-track. The trailing group meets up with a herd of 20 wild horses -- I have missed them again! This is my only regret of the trip. There is something about these animals -- once domesticated but having regained their freedom and running wild -- that captures my imagination in the moment. I am grateful that places remain in the lower 48 states where we can share the sanctuary of some measure of the freedom these animals enjoy.
We carry on to the mountain, passing a working mine. From the top I can see west beyond three more ranges at least to the snow-capped high Sierra to what I guess to be near Bishop. It is clear enough see as far as can be seen within the horizon, and it is spectacular.
We then descend on rough two-track for miles to a dry lake. The surface is hard, the cracks from drying mud having lost their square edges through wind erosion. We play. Gary does long, stand-up high speed wheelies on his 540. We flat track and drag race one other. I take a long high speed run, flat out in sixth gear. For those who haven’t done this on a dry lake, there is something surreal about it. The scale of the land is so great that while the pattern of dried mud in the lake bed passes under you at speed, the distant lake edge does not appear to come any closer through its appearance as a shimmering mirage. It is as if an earth-sized conveyor belt passes under you while you stand still and seem to come no closer to your destination. Then it finally becomes clear, and you begin to shut down. It is easy to go fast on a smooth lake, and my respect for the men who go even faster through the harsher terrain of the desert is immense.
We move on up another range through another piñon pine forest, passing abandoned mines and the rock walls and foundations of crumbling buildings. These sites are scattered throughout Nevada, and you wonder who was it that came to this place and what was it that made this the place they chose to settle for a time before moving on. And what moved them on?
A pressing schedule moves us on, and so we do; across another range to another valley; more flat tracking on decent road and more rough two-track and washes. We stop in Gold Point, a ghost town, for lunch. It is genuine, a mix of history and rubbish heap, with some still living there. The view on the foothill slope out over the valley we have just come through is stunning. Whenever you stop, the scope of the land impresses you.
We soon turn south again, on dirt road, cross a highway, and then hit a 15-mile stretch that had been discussed since the beginning -- rolling whoops interrupted by gullies and washes. It’s a thigh killer and, 100 miles into the day, I pace myself to keep going without going over my head. The two tracks of the path are in shadow from the low, late-afternoon sun, and filled with rocks. A couple of bikes take big hits here, in one case rupturing bib mousse inserts and flattening rims, but no flats.
The whoop section eventually ends at the boundary of the northeast corner of Death Valley National Park. We cross the cattle guard (the sign does not prohibit us from road use) and continue on a more gentle two-track road up a slope and then across the top to another long vista, bathed in golden late-day light. A few miles later we exit the park and then come to our gas stop on the highway outside Beatty. We are a 120 miles into a 200 mile day; 80 left, the last 40 of which is uncharted, and the sun sets as we embark again.
Almost immediately we hit a rutted road of deep silt. I have not ridden silt like this, day or night. Almost immediately everything disappears in a thick, hanging cloud of fine talcum, and I am disoriented. And then I crash. I can’t even see my hand in front of me. I am not dinged, and damage to the bike is minimal. I do damage the wiring from my bike to my TrailTech Helmet light, and am left with the barely adequate stock KTM light. (When I get home, I have a card waiting from my sister, and she writes: “I hope you are doing something special to you on your birthday.” Yes, indeed, I was.)
We pair up and track the road to the side where there is less silt, those with better lighting helping those with less. The moon has not risen and it is pitch black when we stop and shut off lights. About half way through, Eric gives me a spare battery for the helmet light, and I am back in business. It makes a tremendous difference, and the relief from the strain of insufficient light gives me a bit of a second wind. John and Gary navigate fantastically by GPS, hindered less by path finding and more by the stragglers like me, so we cover the 40 miles to our next gas stop in the dark with due deliberation in two hours. There we call it a day and load the bikes for the drive to Pahrump. The remaining 40 miles will have to wait for another trip for its course to be found and set.
Saturday gives us a short 70 mile run into Las Vegas from Pahrump. The first third is on rough road that presents many abrupt washouts, one of which was, fortunately, marked by sign because it was a killer, literally. It is the peculiar trick of the desert that one is lulled into speed and can be caught off guard unless you keep your concentration up. It adds a level of fatigue beyond the physical exertion. A couple of riders have minor get-offs hitting lesser wash outs, but it is a good run otherwise.
At the highway, we stop at a roadside tavern for refreshments (just a Coke, ma’am), then cross over another mountain and down to the pole-line road that will take us the last stretch into Las Vegas. The road is a fun, fast end to the trip, rolling up and down hills, with big g-outs, but truly rough only where shattered, bare rock makes the surface. Las Vegas appears over the last hill, and it looks good. We catch up to the support vehicles on the outskirts. The GPS units show around 480 miles from our start, 40 less to me for missing the night ride the first day. A group plans to ride from there into Vegas, up the strip to Treasure Island, where we are staying. I and Mike relinquish our KTM’s to the two young Roseville Yamaha employee who have driven one of the support vehicles and worked on bikes for the last three days so that they can enjoy the experience. And so, while they head off to split traffic up the strip on a busy Saturday afternoon, those not going crack a beer in the motorhome and follow on in to the hotel. We meet there, load the bikes and gear (which the guys will drive home on Sunday), and hit our rooms for showers.
After dinner it’s off to Endurocross. We don’t have tickets, and it’s sold out. We catch up a few in the parking lot, but Blane and Kevin head up to will-call and exert their substantial charm, and the ladies there find eight tickets to round out what our group needs. We’re in! Steve seems to know everyone, including the Dogger, who hails him and bends his ear for a bit. Gary runs into a rider at the event that he knows, and we spend some time with him. I run into DC and we chat, and later see TFS and Kardy on the floor, and talk a bit with Wag and Brad in the both after. The event is terrific. It’s the perfect end to the three-day adventure. It’s a must see for next year. I hope we ride to it again.
Some of us part way the next morning, with most catching the plane up north to Sacramento. It’s been a fantastic trip, largely because of excellent people, old and newfound friends. It’s hard to express what a wonderful experience it was. Motorcycle people are the best.
So, last Wednesday evening I joined 11 other riders and three guys as support heading up to Virginia City, southeast of Reno, for an early morning start the next day. Virginia City, the site of the classic grand prix, is an old mining town turned tourist attraction in the Nevada high desert above 6,000 feet. It was cold come dawn, but clear and the weather promised to be perfect throughout the ride -- cold, but not too cold (in the day -- more on that later), and clear so that those 100-mile vistas the desert offers would be stunning the whole trip. The mix of guys was terrific; most I knew already, but four men I met for the first time. Of those, Gary and Eric were from up in the Auburn/Foresthill area, where people ride out their front doors to miles of trails. They were excellent riders, Gary especially and, honestly, a genius about bikes. Mark is a doctor and riding for only his third time; the guy was a stud and learned and improved more quickly than anyone I can remember. The fourth guy I met for the first time was Steve Lawler, whom some here may know because Steve (who is now with Bombardier) was with Yamaha for 25 years and must know just about everyone in the industry. An incredibly nice, humble guy, Steve is an outstanding and generous rider (also an accomplished jet ski competitor). Throughout the ride, the group would be talking about bikes and Steve would share stories that made me feel 20 years younger because they brought back great memories of the sport I love so much. And Steve has worked and ridden with some of the best, so they were pretty good stories.
It was such a privilege to get to know each of these guys, as well as the support team. The others in the riding group -- Jeff, Greg, Mike, Kevin, John and Sean were already established riding buddies (and very good riders). Every one of the group reinforced how great it is to be with good motorcycle people. It was a real privilege to ride with them.
We left at 7:30 Thursday morning, dropping down from Virginia City to the town of Dayton and across the highway to begin crossing over the mountains to Smith Valley. Almost immediately we hit a 10 mile stretch of nasty desert-rock jeep trail. (Mark got a rough introduction to riding rocks, but throughout the first day he absorbed advice input and adapted immediately. The guy rode great.) Eventually the rocks gave way to decent dirt road as we crested the summit and dropped into Smith Valley. There, we hit wide improved dirt roads; time for some speed! Roll it on out of the turns and make like Dick Mann with the back end easing out under power. That took us to paved road for a short jaunt to our first gas stop in Smith. A few of out bikes are dual sported (we were about an even split of KTM 450/525 and Yamaha 450s, with Blane on a 610 Husky), so the higway was a bit of a fudge for some. Low and behold, following us into the gas station was the Sheriff. He could of lowered the hammer, but was very cool about it. He admonished us to go a bit slower by the school, and then went on his way.
From there we headed south toward Pine Grove, through familiar terrain I’ve ridden many times. The trails were wide, sandy single track and rough two-track (Nevada is loaded with two-track that is more parallel trails than road, often very rough, washed out, or rocky.) We dropped down from that to a wide dirt road heading south, and it was again time for some speed. Geared as I was, flat out in sixth got me about 90 mph (according to GPS), and we cooked for a mile or two until the lead riders had shut down. Steve’s bike had an oil leak. John then came up to me and asked it I had an exhaust leak because something was venting from down near my pipe on the right side of the bike when I passed him. I looked down and the left side of my 525 was covered with oil from the foot peg back. A rock had found its way to the nook where the sight glass for oil is located on the side case and shattered the glass. We were about forty miles from the nearest town. Yikes!
Improvisation time. Blane, who is very funny and may have the quickest wit of any man I’ve ever met, loves these situations. Within a short time we’ve got a quarter pressed into the seal to replace the glass and its covered with epoxy. In the meantime, we are on the outskirts of the Hilton Ranch (that Hilton, and it’s reputed to be in the area of a million acres), and two of the group head off to see if they can get some oil. A friendly caretaker, who tells them a bit about the ranch and the area, obliges with a quart of Castrol 20/50. (Okay -- and we all wanted to know -- so he answers that, no, Paris doesn’t make it out there.) The 525 took about 3/4 of the quart, and the remainder went to Steve’s bike. The fix was perfect, no problems going forward; I count myself lucky we shut down when we did and I didn’t grenade a dry motor. The only downside is that my back brake pads are oil soaked and I have to deal with no and, later, marginal rear brakes for the remainder of the trip (which makes for some memorable moments on rocky downhills!).
But we are down an hour at least, which sets back our schedule. Fortunately, the track from then on remains on good dirt road, with a section of nasty two-track thrown in, for the next couple hours. It is beautiful country, rolling high desert foothills leading up into the mountains through groves of piñon pine. I am distracted though, because I am still acclimating to no rear brake and am not yet at rest that my engine has come through unscathed, so it is hard to fully take in how beautiful the country we’re passing through is.
We cross another mountain range. It’s cold and there is evidence of recent snow in the pass. We drop down to the highway south of Hawthorne just before four in the afternoon to gas up and, late, for our lunch stop. The sun sets, it is getting very cold, and there is 40 miles to Tonopah, our destination. I am still worried about my bike, tired after a 180 miles of riding, and feel primed to make a mistake if I push it. Faced with a ride by lights over, which I’ve never done, over terrain I’ve never seen, I choose to sit it out and join half the group in loading up to drive around the next section to the outskirts of Tonopah. This frees the remaining riders to, who are good, experienced folks, to engage the adventure of 40 miles at night. Those guys head off, and we make the loop around to meet them.
An hour later we pull into the rest stop outside Tonopah to wait on them. It’s a bit surreal because I have vivid memories of being in this same spot back in the 60’s when our family car-camped throughout the west during summers and we stopped here on different occasions. Just memories that come back vividly for no special reason. After some time we see light begin to dance in the darkness as our friends emerge from the hills. They are some miles distant and it is a long time before we can hear the bikes and they finally come in. The trip has been uneventful, bit for a stretch of silt and the cold. And the remarkable experience of coming across wild horses, whose silhouettes track them in the dark for a bit before they turn off and disappear. We load the remaining bikes at about 8 and head to our hotel to rest before another long day, Friday, which also is my 48th birthday.
The morning greets us in Tonopah with another cold, clear day. We swap out dirty oil filters, Gary upgrades the stator in John’s bike, and we leave the hotel in pairs, idling through town to keep the noise down on the way to the trailhead. We head out south toward another mountain miles through dirt roads, sand washes, and rough two-track. The trailing group meets up with a herd of 20 wild horses -- I have missed them again! This is my only regret of the trip. There is something about these animals -- once domesticated but having regained their freedom and running wild -- that captures my imagination in the moment. I am grateful that places remain in the lower 48 states where we can share the sanctuary of some measure of the freedom these animals enjoy.
We carry on to the mountain, passing a working mine. From the top I can see west beyond three more ranges at least to the snow-capped high Sierra to what I guess to be near Bishop. It is clear enough see as far as can be seen within the horizon, and it is spectacular.
We then descend on rough two-track for miles to a dry lake. The surface is hard, the cracks from drying mud having lost their square edges through wind erosion. We play. Gary does long, stand-up high speed wheelies on his 540. We flat track and drag race one other. I take a long high speed run, flat out in sixth gear. For those who haven’t done this on a dry lake, there is something surreal about it. The scale of the land is so great that while the pattern of dried mud in the lake bed passes under you at speed, the distant lake edge does not appear to come any closer through its appearance as a shimmering mirage. It is as if an earth-sized conveyor belt passes under you while you stand still and seem to come no closer to your destination. Then it finally becomes clear, and you begin to shut down. It is easy to go fast on a smooth lake, and my respect for the men who go even faster through the harsher terrain of the desert is immense.
We move on up another range through another piñon pine forest, passing abandoned mines and the rock walls and foundations of crumbling buildings. These sites are scattered throughout Nevada, and you wonder who was it that came to this place and what was it that made this the place they chose to settle for a time before moving on. And what moved them on?
A pressing schedule moves us on, and so we do; across another range to another valley; more flat tracking on decent road and more rough two-track and washes. We stop in Gold Point, a ghost town, for lunch. It is genuine, a mix of history and rubbish heap, with some still living there. The view on the foothill slope out over the valley we have just come through is stunning. Whenever you stop, the scope of the land impresses you.
We soon turn south again, on dirt road, cross a highway, and then hit a 15-mile stretch that had been discussed since the beginning -- rolling whoops interrupted by gullies and washes. It’s a thigh killer and, 100 miles into the day, I pace myself to keep going without going over my head. The two tracks of the path are in shadow from the low, late-afternoon sun, and filled with rocks. A couple of bikes take big hits here, in one case rupturing bib mousse inserts and flattening rims, but no flats.
The whoop section eventually ends at the boundary of the northeast corner of Death Valley National Park. We cross the cattle guard (the sign does not prohibit us from road use) and continue on a more gentle two-track road up a slope and then across the top to another long vista, bathed in golden late-day light. A few miles later we exit the park and then come to our gas stop on the highway outside Beatty. We are a 120 miles into a 200 mile day; 80 left, the last 40 of which is uncharted, and the sun sets as we embark again.
Almost immediately we hit a rutted road of deep silt. I have not ridden silt like this, day or night. Almost immediately everything disappears in a thick, hanging cloud of fine talcum, and I am disoriented. And then I crash. I can’t even see my hand in front of me. I am not dinged, and damage to the bike is minimal. I do damage the wiring from my bike to my TrailTech Helmet light, and am left with the barely adequate stock KTM light. (When I get home, I have a card waiting from my sister, and she writes: “I hope you are doing something special to you on your birthday.” Yes, indeed, I was.)
We pair up and track the road to the side where there is less silt, those with better lighting helping those with less. The moon has not risen and it is pitch black when we stop and shut off lights. About half way through, Eric gives me a spare battery for the helmet light, and I am back in business. It makes a tremendous difference, and the relief from the strain of insufficient light gives me a bit of a second wind. John and Gary navigate fantastically by GPS, hindered less by path finding and more by the stragglers like me, so we cover the 40 miles to our next gas stop in the dark with due deliberation in two hours. There we call it a day and load the bikes for the drive to Pahrump. The remaining 40 miles will have to wait for another trip for its course to be found and set.
Saturday gives us a short 70 mile run into Las Vegas from Pahrump. The first third is on rough road that presents many abrupt washouts, one of which was, fortunately, marked by sign because it was a killer, literally. It is the peculiar trick of the desert that one is lulled into speed and can be caught off guard unless you keep your concentration up. It adds a level of fatigue beyond the physical exertion. A couple of riders have minor get-offs hitting lesser wash outs, but it is a good run otherwise.
At the highway, we stop at a roadside tavern for refreshments (just a Coke, ma’am), then cross over another mountain and down to the pole-line road that will take us the last stretch into Las Vegas. The road is a fun, fast end to the trip, rolling up and down hills, with big g-outs, but truly rough only where shattered, bare rock makes the surface. Las Vegas appears over the last hill, and it looks good. We catch up to the support vehicles on the outskirts. The GPS units show around 480 miles from our start, 40 less to me for missing the night ride the first day. A group plans to ride from there into Vegas, up the strip to Treasure Island, where we are staying. I and Mike relinquish our KTM’s to the two young Roseville Yamaha employee who have driven one of the support vehicles and worked on bikes for the last three days so that they can enjoy the experience. And so, while they head off to split traffic up the strip on a busy Saturday afternoon, those not going crack a beer in the motorhome and follow on in to the hotel. We meet there, load the bikes and gear (which the guys will drive home on Sunday), and hit our rooms for showers.
After dinner it’s off to Endurocross. We don’t have tickets, and it’s sold out. We catch up a few in the parking lot, but Blane and Kevin head up to will-call and exert their substantial charm, and the ladies there find eight tickets to round out what our group needs. We’re in! Steve seems to know everyone, including the Dogger, who hails him and bends his ear for a bit. Gary runs into a rider at the event that he knows, and we spend some time with him. I run into DC and we chat, and later see TFS and Kardy on the floor, and talk a bit with Wag and Brad in the both after. The event is terrific. It’s the perfect end to the three-day adventure. It’s a must see for next year. I hope we ride to it again.
Some of us part way the next morning, with most catching the plane up north to Sacramento. It’s been a fantastic trip, largely because of excellent people, old and newfound friends. It’s hard to express what a wonderful experience it was. Motorcycle people are the best.
s:wink: 
FreshTopEnd wrote: A couple of my friends have put together a three-day ride from the Reno area to Las Vegas for the last few years, and this year I was finally able to go. The ride originally was conceived by one of the riders, Blane, as a fund raiser for a program at a non-profit he worked at (Blane would acquire basket-case dirt bikes and then help kids rebuild them to the point where they could use them to learn to ride). When it ran its course as a fund raiser, two friends of mine, John and Kevin the owners of Premier Homes, kept it going as a trip for friends to ride and spend time together. They and the owner of Roseville Yamaha took over the organization of a team with a couple support vehicles and the hotel reservations for each night. This year was the first opportunity I had where I both felt well enough and could match my schedule so that I could go. As it turned out, the arrival in Vegas for this year’s ride coincided with the Endurocross, so we made last minute plans to catch that.
So, last Wednesday evening I joined 11 other riders and three guys as support heading up to Virginia City, southeast of Reno, for an early morning start the next day. Virginia City, the site of the classic grand prix, is an old mining town turned tourist attraction in the Nevada high desert above 6,000 feet. It was cold come dawn, but clear and the weather promised to be perfect throughout the ride -- cold, but not too cold (in the day -- more on that later), and clear so that those 100-mile vistas the desert offers would be stunning the whole trip. The mix of guys was terrific; most I knew already, but four men I met for the first time. Of those, Gary and Eric were from up in the Auburn/Foresthill area, where people ride out their front doors to miles of trails. They were excellent riders, Gary especially and, honestly, a genius about bikes. Mark is a doctor and riding for only his third time; the guy was a stud and learned and improved more quickly than anyone I can remember. The fourth guy I met for the first time was Steve Lawler, whom some here may know because Steve (who is now with Bombardier) was with Yamaha for 25 years and must know just about everyone in the industry. An incredibly nice, humble guy, Steve is an outstanding and generous rider (also an accomplished jet ski competitor). Throughout the ride, the group would be talking about bikes and Steve would share stories that made me feel 20 years younger because they brought back great memories of the sport I love so much. And Steve has worked and ridden with some of the best, so they were pretty good stories.
It was such a privilege to get to know each of these guys, as well as the support team. The others in the riding group -- Jeff, Greg, Mike, Kevin, John and Sean were already established riding buddies (and very good riders). Every one of the group reinforced how great it is to be with good motorcycle people. It was a real privilege to ride with them.
We left at 7:30 Thursday morning, dropping down from Virginia City to the town of Dayton and across the highway to begin crossing over the mountains to Smith Valley. Almost immediately we hit a 10 mile stretch of nasty desert-rock jeep trail. (Mark got a rough introduction to riding rocks, but throughout the first day he absorbed advice input and adapted immediately. The guy rode great.) Eventually the rocks gave way to decent dirt road as we crested the summit and dropped into Smith Valley. There, we hit wide improved dirt roads; time for some speed! Roll it on out of the turns and make like Dick Mann with the back end easing out under power. That took us to paved road for a short jaunt to our first gas stop in Smith. A few of out bikes are dual sported (we were about an even split of KTM 450/525 and Yamaha 450s, with Blane on a 610 Husky), so the higway was a bit of a fudge for some. Low and behold, following us into the gas station was the Sheriff. He could of lowered the hammer, but was very cool about it. He admonished us to go a bit slower by the school, and then went on his way.
From there we headed south toward Pine Grove, through familiar terrain I’ve ridden many times. The trails were wide, sandy single track and rough two-track (Nevada is loaded with two-track that is more parallel trails than road, often very rough, washed out, or rocky.) We dropped down from that to a wide dirt road heading south, and it was again time for some speed. Geared as I was, flat out in sixth got me about 90 mph (according to GPS), and we cooked for a mile or two until the lead riders had shut down. Steve’s bike had an oil leak. John then came up to me and asked it I had an exhaust leak because something was venting from down near my pipe on the right side of the bike when I passed him. I looked down and the left side of my 525 was covered with oil from the foot peg back. A rock had found its way to the nook where the sight glass for oil is located on the side case and shattered the glass. We were about forty miles from the nearest town. Yikes!
Improvisation time. Blane, who is very funny and may have the quickest wit of any man I’ve ever met, loves these situations. Within a short time we’ve got a quarter pressed into the seal to replace the glass and its covered with epoxy. In the meantime, we are on the outskirts of the Hilton Ranch (that Hilton, and it’s reputed to be in the area of a million acres), and two of the group head off to see if they can get some oil. A friendly caretaker, who tells them a bit about the ranch and the area, obliges with a quart of Castrol 20/50. (Okay -- and we all wanted to know -- so he answers that, no, Paris doesn’t make it out there.) The 525 took about 3/4 of the quart, and the remainder went to Steve’s bike. The fix was perfect, no problems going forward; I count myself lucky we shut down when we did and I didn’t grenade a dry motor. The only downside is that my back brake pads are oil soaked and I have to deal with no and, later, marginal rear brakes for the remainder of the trip (which makes for some memorable moments on rocky downhills!).
But we are down an hour at least, which sets back our schedule. Fortunately, the track from then on remains on good dirt road, with a section of nasty two-track thrown in, for the next couple hours. It is beautiful country, rolling high desert foothills leading up into the mountains through groves of piñon pine. I am distracted though, because I am still acclimating to no rear brake and am not yet at rest that my engine has come through unscathed, so it is hard to fully take in how beautiful the country we’re passing through is.
We cross another mountain range. It’s cold and there is evidence of recent snow in the pass. We drop down to the highway south of Hawthorne just before four in the afternoon to gas up and, late, for our lunch stop. The sun sets, it is getting very cold, and there is 40 miles to Tonopah, our destination. I am still worried about my bike, tired after a 180 miles of riding, and feel primed to make a mistake if I push it. Faced with a ride by lights over, which I’ve never done, over terrain I’ve never seen, I choose to sit it out and join half the group in loading up to drive around the next section to the outskirts of Tonopah. This frees the remaining riders to, who are good, experienced folks, to engage the adventure of 40 miles at night. Those guys head off, and we make the loop around to meet them.
An hour later we pull into the rest stop outside Tonopah to wait on them. It’s a bit surreal because I have vivid memories of being in this same spot back in the 60’s when our family car-camped throughout the west during summers and we stopped here on different occasions. Just memories that come back vividly for no special reason. After some time we see light begin to dance in the darkness as our friends emerge from the hills. They are some miles distant and it is a long time before we can hear the bikes and they finally come in. The trip has been uneventful, bit for a stretch of silt and the cold. And the remarkable experience of coming across wild horses, whose silhouettes track them in the dark for a bit before they turn off and disappear. We load the remaining bikes at about 8 and head to our hotel to rest before another long day, Friday, which also is my 48th birthday.
The morning greets us in Tonopah with another cold, clear day. We swap out dirty oil filters, Gary upgrades the stator in John’s bike, and we leave the hotel in pairs, idling through town to keep the noise down on the way to the trailhead. We head out south toward another mountain miles through dirt roads, sand washes, and rough two-track. The trailing group meets up with a herd of 20 wild horses -- I have missed them again! This is my only regret of the trip. There is something about these animals -- once domesticated but having regained their freedom and running wild -- that captures my imagination in the moment. I am grateful that places remain in the lower 48 states where we can share the sanctuary of some measure of the freedom these animals enjoy.
We carry on to the mountain, passing a working mine. From the top I can see west beyond three more ranges at least to the snow-capped high Sierra to what I guess to be near Bishop. It is clear enough see as far as can be seen within the horizon, and it is spectacular.
We then descend on rough two-track for miles to a dry lake. The surface is hard, the cracks from drying mud having lost their square edges through wind erosion. We play. Gary does long, stand-up high speed wheelies on his 540. We flat track and drag race one other. I take a long high speed run, flat out in sixth gear. For those who haven’t done this on a dry lake, there is something surreal about it. The scale of the land is so great that while the pattern of dried mud in the lake bed passes under you at speed, the distant lake edge does not appear to come any closer through its appearance as a shimmering mirage. It is as if an earth-sized conveyor belt passes under you while you stand still and seem to come no closer to your destination. Then it finally becomes clear, and you begin to shut down. It is easy to go fast on a smooth lake, and my respect for the men who go even faster through the harsher terrain of the desert is immense.
We move on up another range through another piñon pine forest, passing abandoned mines and the rock walls and foundations of crumbling buildings. These sites are scattered throughout Nevada, and you wonder who was it that came to this place and what was it that made this the place they chose to settle for a time before moving on. And what moved them on?
A pressing schedule moves us on, and so we do; across another range to another valley; more flat tracking on decent road and more rough two-track and washes. We stop in Gold Point, a ghost town, for lunch. It is genuine, a mix of history and rubbish heap, with some still living there. The view on the foothill slope out over the valley we have just come through is stunning. Whenever you stop, the scope of the land impresses you.
We soon turn south again, on dirt road, cross a highway, and then hit a 15-mile stretch that had been discussed since the beginning -- rolling whoops interrupted by gullies and washes. It’s a thigh killer and, 100 miles into the day, I pace myself to keep going without going over my head. The two tracks of the path are in shadow from the low, late-afternoon sun, and filled with rocks. A couple of bikes take big hits here, in one case rupturing bib mousse inserts and flattening rims, but no flats.
The whoop section eventually ends at the boundary of the northeast corner of Death Valley National Park. We cross the cattle guard (the sign does not prohibit us from road use) and continue on a more gentle two-track road up a slope and then across the top to another long vista, bathed in golden late-day light. A few miles later we exit the park and then come to our gas stop on the highway outside Beatty. We are a 120 miles into a 200 mile day; 80 left, the last 40 of which is uncharted, and the sun sets as we embark again.
Almost immediately we hit a rutted road of deep silt. I have not ridden silt like this, day or night. Almost immediately everything disappears in a thick, hanging cloud of fine talcum, and I am disoriented. And then I crash. I can’t even see my hand in front of me. I am not dinged, and damage to the bike is minimal. I do damage the wiring from my bike to my TrailTech Helmet light, and am left with the barely adequate stock KTM light. (When I get home, I have a card waiting from my sister, and she writes: “I hope you are doing something special to you on your birthday.” Yes, indeed, I was.)
We pair up and track the road to the side where there is less silt, those with better lighting helping those with less. The moon has not risen and it is pitch black when we stop and shut off lights. About half way through, Eric gives me a spare battery for the helmet light, and I am back in business. It makes a tremendous difference, and the relief from the strain of insufficient light gives me a bit of a second wind. John and Gary navigate fantastically by GPS, hindered less by path finding and more by the stragglers like me, so we cover the 40 miles to our next gas stop in the dark with due deliberation in two hours. There we call it a day and load the bikes for the drive to Pahrump. The remaining 40 miles will have to wait for another trip for its course to be found and set.
Saturday gives us a short 70 mile run into Las Vegas from Pahrump. The first third is on rough road that presents many abrupt washouts, one of which was, fortunately, marked by sign because it was a killer, literally. It is the peculiar trick of the desert that one is lulled into speed and can be caught off guard unless you keep your concentration up. It adds a level of fatigue beyond the physical exertion. A couple of riders have minor get-offs hitting lesser wash outs, but it is a good run otherwise.
At the highway, we stop at a roadside tavern for refreshments (just a Coke, ma’am), then cross over another mountain and down to the pole-line road that will take us the last stretch into Las Vegas. The road is a fun, fast end to the trip, rolling up and down hills, with big g-outs, but truly rough only where shattered, bare rock makes the surface. Las Vegas appears over the last hill, and it looks good. We catch up to the support vehicles on the outskirts. The GPS units show around 480 miles from our start, 40 less to me for missing the night ride the first day. A group plans to ride from there into Vegas, up the strip to Treasure Island, where we are staying. I and Mike relinquish our KTM’s to the two young Roseville Yamaha employee who have driven one of the support vehicles and worked on bikes for the last three days so that they can enjoy the experience. And so, while they head off to split traffic up the strip on a busy Saturday afternoon, those not going crack a beer in the motorhome and follow on in to the hotel. We meet there, load the bikes and gear (which the guys will drive home on Sunday), and hit our rooms for showers.
After dinner it’s off to Endurocross. We don’t have tickets, and it’s sold out. We catch up a few in the parking lot, but Blane and Kevin head up to will-call and exert their substantial charm, and the ladies there find eight tickets to round out what our group needs. We’re in! Steve seems to know everyone, including the Dogger, who hails him and bends his ear for a bit. Gary runs into a rider at the event that he knows, and we spend some time with him. I run into DC and we chat, and later see TFS and Kardy on the floor, and talk a bit with Wag and Brad in the both after. The event is terrific. It’s the perfect end to the three-day adventure. It’s a must see for next year. I hope we ride to it again.
Some of us part way the next morning, with most catching the plane up north to Sacramento. It’s been a fantastic trip, largely because of excellent people, old and newfound friends. It’s hard to express what a wonderful experience it was. Motorcycle people are the best.