Barstow to Laughlin down old Mojave trail 2012

 February 2012

Route: Barstow to Laughlin down old Mojave trail

Weather: 40's in the morn to a beautiful 70's

Technicalities: Just Stu's 6 miles of whoops

Riders: Stu, Bob, Jim, Matt, Ray (well, almost)

Drama:

Robitussin was called into service T - 10 hours before departure. He pulled some sliders at work and was all-in by the morning of departure. We headed to Ray's house to load his steamer trunk of gear. The first foreshadowing occurred when Stoo's truck wouldn't crank. Click click nothing. After they figured out how to get the hood open on Jim's spanking new truck, Jumpers were secured and the silver dodge rumbled to life and then died. Stoo's captain abilities kicked in and he shouted the orders, "When she starts, go three bells ahead full and hit the road." A second jump and we were off steaming err.. driving. There was the usual drive from Poway to our jump point about 15 min out of Barstow with a stop for Java somewhere in beautiful Corona.

Arriving at the campsite at 10 am, it was still 49 deg. There was the usual drama with radios barely working and getting bikes to start especially with the cold air. Jim got his bike started a bit faster than usual but the carb was pissing gas out the overflow like a race horse. There might as well been a straight tube from the tank to the ground. It didn't look as if it was slowing at all. Like a bunch of Okies, we started " a - figuring" what could be wrong and the fix. There was the usual tap on the bowl with a screw driver, then a whack or two with a rock, then a few big clanks with the moto boot. None of these scientific remedies were working. Finally it was agreed that the solution was to turn off the gas and go for a quick trail ride before the motor died. 2x tries and the gas finally stopped. Upon returning to camp, Ray's bike was being giving CPR and with no signs of life. The starter was winding down from so much winding up the motor. Then every one had a shot at kicking starting the red. Everyone has their own secret superstitious ritual to get just the right conditions before giving it a good whack. Alas, Not even a pop. Stoo quickly secured a tow strap and we drug the red carcass up and down the campsite, motor still refusing to pop. Back in

camp, everyone quickly prepped for surgery. All the tools kits were out and several hands were removing the gas tank to get at the ticker..er.. the plug. Like Dr Frankenstein, we got excited when a small weak spark was seen. It was assumed that the hot lead off the coil was loose due to the recent addition of the oversized gas tank. Big red was assemble for another round of resuscitation. Kick kick kick Still no pop and no happiness. Ray gallantly proclaimed, "you guys go. I will stay here." There was the usual flurry of plan B's but Ray would hear nothing of it. Off into the day the four horsemen rode, not only leaving around 12:30 but leaving Ray waving goodbye like Auntie M.

Riding out, the radios were fairly quiet due to the mulling over what could have been done more. Once we hit the dunes, the old geezers let the young studs out in front. The geezers should have known better with their wisdom but there was a deeper wisdom to give these young men the turn to lead, the turn to take risks, and the turn to learn. But as the young guys would have it, it was the turn to BURN! The chase was afoot. There are a maze of routes through the sand dodging big bushes that defiantly hung on in this wicked landscape. The early 1880 settlers knew this and had piled rocks to avoid getting lost along the way as they would poke through the desert on their horses. Little would they know but these rock piles still exist and these motorized horsemen were whipping through them at almost freeway speeds. Exiting the sand dunes there was about a half mile of whoops. These were not from the settlers but from the OHV park off of ZZzzyx Road. We were still pretty fresh but the whoops helped keep the speed down just a hair.

A healthy amount of concern was wasted by the dads on the thought of crossing the dry lake bed due to our last near tragic and now infamous mud crossing. Thankfully the lake was dry as the name it has. We hot rodded across the lake with streams of dust rocketing out behind each rider. If it was in Panavision, it would have made motion picture history and possibly an Emmy for the effect. It was one of those sights that only the wide angle of your eye could appreciate. Once off the lake bed, Stoo proclaimed over the radio a colorfully weaved together set of adjectives explaining that the next 12 miles would be full of whoops. (the rumor is starting that Stoo's speedometer is set on Km not Miles). The whoops delivered big. It is a run of whoops

so tall that taking them slow probably is just as tiring as hammering the tops. It is hard to explain but backing off the throttle was what the tire body was saying but the mind registered more throttle was less abuse. The biggest problem is fatigue and the dreaded side to side slappers if both timing and speed got out of sync.

(Side note for those who need more explaining: A whoop is a series of wave like bumps in the road in the snow they would be called moguls. These whoops are about 36 inches or more high and a car length long. As I said, it went on for miles. The moto suspension has about 12 inches of stroke. Add a standing rider and there is around another 8 inches of travel the leg can bend before the rider hits the seat. Doing the math, the whoops are winning the game with at least 16 inches that the bike some how has to go over or up and down. When a rider is fresh, there is a certain timing of launching off the first like a jump and clearing the second. Of course the rider hopes that the landing is on the down side of the third whoop so that it is a fluid up and over motion. All that takes incredible timing with just the right approach speed and last second twist of the throttle to increase the launch as needed. Even when it goes perfect, the leg is acting like an 8 inch shock absorber. At 30-40 mph, the leg is going up and down about 2 times a second. Eventually this poor guy is going to get tired and then the ship really hits the sand. There are usually two modes that create a near death experience. 1. The tired rider fails to launch far enough to clear the third whoop and instead of the rear wheel landing, the front wheel dives straight into the face of the whoop, this is called “Raggedy Ann”, in an instant (actually just enough instant for the rider to know it’s gonna be a crash but not long enough to change positions) in that instant the front shock compresses completely and the rider’s body continues traveling at 30 mph into the gas tank and handle bar. (I swear I heard my neck crack in three places on one collision better than the chiropractor). Or 2. (it pains me to even tell of it) the landing is somewhere between the two wheels then the rider’s weight shifts forward. For just a brief moment, it seems like it will all be fine but then the rear wheel springs off from what it just hit. Because the rider is too far forward, the rear wheel somehow decides it wants to be out in front with everything else and the bike starts to swing the end wildly around to one side in the air. Two

elements of physics still apply which is all of this momentum is still moving forward at 30 mph and gravity yanks the rear wheel down. Now picture this, the rider and the bike are going forward at 30 mph. However, the bike is no longer straight but lands at an angle. Instantly the ground slaps the rear wheel back, trying to get it straight. Sadly for the rider, the rear wheel comes all the way around to the other side and the whole thing repeats. Like a big fish tail, the rear of the bike keeps slapping back and forth. If the rider is lucky, the speed drops enough to get it under control. If not, the rider gets spit out in front of the swinging bike only to have the bike catch up and run him over. It is wicked crazy to watch!

(Now where was I? ) At the end of the whoops and by the time we hit the highway crossing, we were rung out. We stopped to catch our breath. We shot across the highway and onto a much flatter trail with curves and berms to ride holding us into the turns. With Bob and Matt in the lead, you would have though we were in the Barstow to Vegas race! The dads were doing their best to suppress the dad-isms until they finally got too tired of chasing. Over the radio headsets it was heard, "Hey, is it me or are we riding a bit fast? " The leaders slowed for a moment but that was all.

We finally were spit out onto a 4 lane graded road where we had a quick photo. Just then the Ranger truck made a turn in front of us and headed up the road to some unseen campsite. It was pretty much the only traffic we saw on the trail all day long. We were happy that the ranger was disappearing out of site. Even though we were semi-legal, doing too much explaining gets complicated so we chilled for a few minutes for the ranger to wander off. Stoo took the lead on the wide dirt road. The speeds kept cranking up faster and faster to the point where if we were on the interstate freeway, we would have been pulled over and thrown in jail for reckless driving. At one point, Matt's GPS registered a top speed of 86. For the concerned reader, I am sure that it was just a momentary miscalculation as we passed beneath satellites. Needless to say, that section seemed shorter than I remember. We were at once spit out at a T intersection in the middle of nowhere. There was no clue as to where the trail picked up. Just like our first ride, we guessed a right turn. We rode up a piece and realised it was going nowhere

too. We then hooked it back around and made a right turn on a tiny little dirt road inlet. Having made the exact mistake as last time, we ended up bashing our way down some ancient dirt road that was more sage brush than road. We probably were the last riders on this road over 2 years ago. After a mile, we finally spilled out on "Old Gevernment Road". Stoo seeing a straight dirt road was now back at screaming speeds for the Nevada border. We traversed a most picturesque valley as the shadows were getting long. After riding about 120 miles without gas, Bob was nervously eying the low level of gas in his tank. The trail succumbs to a hidden little valley just before it hits the final destination, the pavement to civilization. The sun was just setting as we hit the highway for the 3 mile ride to the AVI Indian Casino.

Puling into the casino’s oasis of light, we stopped first to fill up our tanks with gas. Matt’s DRZ took 2.7 gallons and my WR just about the same. The entertainment began when we tried to fill our one pint aluminum bingo bottles (16 oz = another 6 miles of riding which may not sound like a lot until you have to walk the next 6). A little kid in a pickup truck was watching us closely. I am not sure that it would have helped if the bottles were clear to see when they would overflow since the pump delivered a full bottle in 2 seconds. We made a hasty retreat from the pumps leaving enough gas on the ground to blow the joint up.

Since motorcycles get the best parking at the casino, we only had a short walk to check into the lobby. Despite that, we got plenty of strange looks still decked out in the same dust that we rode with all day across the desert.

If you were reading closely, you will have noticed that we never had lunch. Matt was starting to grumble that everything smelled like food. After some strange looks and getting the keys for our rooms, we headed over to the elevators. As most casinos are designed, we had to navigate the labyrinth of slots, smokes, and retired folks. We almost had to put a bag over Matt’s head to get him to walk past the fast food area. By the time we got to the elevators, the talk of the buffet was like kids dreaming of Santa. We hit the rooms. Nothing feels better than taking off the riding boots after a full day of bashing along the trail. Stu

produced a chilled bottle of white wine that he procured from the gas station. $4 buck chuck! I aint no sissy wine drinker but I have to admit that after a day of trail dust and water from a drinking system, it tasted pretty dang good!

Keep in mind that most of our rides culminate in some Mexico flop. One has hot salt water showers. The other doesn’t turn the lights on until the generator starts at sundown and then they shut it off at 9 PM. So the casino rooms were luxury for us. After a hot shower, we slipped into our dry clothes (there is somewhat an art to packing a complete set of clothes including shoes that compress into a backpack.)

In no-time, we were hot on the scent of hitting the all-you-can-eat buffet. We almost got side tracked into the all-you-can-eat pasta dinner but the thought of red meat snapped us back on trail. When we finally got to the buffet, we hardly sat down and then the four of us were pacing back and forth like lions at a river with gazelles drinking on the other bank. We were sizing up what would be the tastiest thing to eat firsts and seconds.

After a bit, we could barely breathe, we were so full. We waddled off to hit the Jacuzzi. Whoa! Wow! Whoa and wow, it felt soooo gooood. The bubbles, the heat, what a treat.

After the Jacuzzi, we skipped the tantalizing call of the casino floor. We were just too tired. I don’t remember what went dark first after I hit the TV remote off switch, my eyes or the tube.

Lying there all-comfy, my thoughts recalled that Ray might be wadded up in the back seat of the truck. Even though reception at the campsite was spotty, I shot Ray a TXT message. I set the phone down and pulled the covers up. In a few moments, I was surprised to hear back from him. Ray explained that he had a big day. First he made friends with one of the 3 campers and they fed him dinner. Then the other campers had a jumbo star gazing telescope so Ray got to see the man in the moon up close. He also scored a hot chocolate! He left off with saying that it was cold out.

It had to be near freezing. If he had a sleeping bag and was in

the truck, he would be fine, but, he didn’t. I was feeling guilty so I shot him back a message, “Start the truck and turn on the heater.” I never heard back from Ray. I pulled the covers back up and nodded off to sleep.

The next morning was a slow start. The winter sun was slow to come up too. Matt was still sound asleep. ‘College Student hours’ I thought. I got dressed and wandered down stairs in search of a cuppa coffee. As I exited the elevator, Stu was sitting there with his cup and reading the paper. As he peered over the top of his glasses, he busted into a Stu smile. “What’s up?” “Where’d you get the coffee?” I asked.

“ I had to walk over to the gas station.” Stu said.

Not really interested in walking across the lot in the cold, again I said let’s go grab the boys and head for the breakfast buffet.

Zigzaging our way back through the casino, we wandered past a few all nighter gamblers. I figured since they had trickled down to playing the penny slots, they probably were not on a jumbo winning streak.

Our timing was not that great as the buffet was mobbed by a tour bus that unloaded tons of Asians. Some how we powered through the mob. We all agreed that the only thing that was missing was the greasy chorizo and eggs. We were going to miss the spicy heartburn burps later on the trail.

In Mexico as the breakfast starts to disappear, the overwhelming sense of getting ready for the big day’s ride starts to appear. Conversation starts to get short as our minds start to calculate the possible dangers ahead and counter preparations. But this morning, sitting in a warm restaurant in Nevada we weren’t really in any sort of hurry. We sat and had a few more swigs of our coffees, and having conversations with our sons. It was what life is made for…

After we couldn’t drink any more coffee, we headed up to the room and suited up. There are so many steps and sequences to getting all the protective gear on in the correct order.

Here it goes and don’t ask me to repeat it fast. First, of course

goes on the bicycle shorts, they have a bit of a pad but they are designed to wick away sweat, no one wants sweaty.. well, enough said. Next comes the knee high socks over which goes the knee pads with shin guards. ( I never understand why they always have shin guards as these get covered by the thick shin high boots??) Over the shin guard goes another pair of socks to protect from boot rub. Now the pants go over all of that. Next is a technical fabric undershirt which again wicks away sweat and keeps you from getting a chafe from all the other crap going on next. Which leads me to the kidney belt that fastens up uncomfortably tight around the waist. (In theory, the kidney belt is supposed to keep all your guts in place, if there ever was a high speed crash. Kidneys do blow out and I am pretty sure that’s why God gave us a spare.) Now this is where I always screw up, elbow pads go on under the colorful long sleeve riding shirt. These shirts are suppose to make us look tough or like racers or sumpin’ but we end up putting even more stuff on over that too.) Hang in there as we are done getting the clothes on and next comes the gear. Finally the boots come on. These babys are indispensable protection against 60 mph sticks and stones. It seems like there are 20 latches to cinch the boot ever tighter around the leg but it is probably only five which are just hard to cinch up. Whew! Finally over the colorful shirt comes the chest protector. They are like cheepo football shoulder pads but serve the purpose of defending off branches that want to joust you off your motorcycle. Next comes an enormous back pack not only full of dirty skivvys and socks but with tons of tools, tire pumps, radios, survival gear, eight pounds of water, and way more than that (after all, we are always a hundred miles from no where when any calamity hits. The only triple A is on your buddy’s back. Finally comes the first aid fanny pack with a most excellent assortment of prescription strength pain killers and anti-diaria medicine. Both extremely important as you could imagine.

If it is cold, we throw on a trail jacket over that. To top it off is the most important piece, the helmet and goggles. All said, the gear probably adds another 50 pounds or more to our frames.

We usually stuff some sort of snacks in the pockets of our riding pants. My favorite has been the “Payday” candy bar. The ‘fun’

size. They don’t melt, are both salty and sweet. Perfect!

After all this work of suiting up, we clunk our way down the bijou colored carpet in the casino and over to our dirt bikes. Thank fully everyone’s motors started up pretty quick after sitting all night in the cold. A few moments and several stairs from people due to the roaring of our motors and we were off heading down the highway.

The first part of the ride was the same drill as before with the boys disappearing in the dust immediately and us dads trying to catch up while we recalibrate our brains to going fast again. Bob and Matt were doing a great job of finding their way back up the trail and calling turns. We passed two jeeps who were picking their way down the road and were kind enough to find some room to scoot over for us on the trail. We were almost to a highway crossing when Bob stopped. He was quite excited to explain that his throttle decided to stick wide open! His only way of catching the run away motor was to hit the kill switch. Now most bikes have two kill switches, one main for the electrical on the right side of the bar and one motor kill switch near the left hand. Unfortunately Bob’s motor kill switch broke on a recent ride but that was considered to not be a big deal since he had the main electrical switch. But today, we learned why they give a kill switch on the left side. Going flat out, Bob said it was almost impossible to cross his left hand over his body and hit the right switch! It must have been quite exciting judging from Bob’s wide eyes and his pacing back and forth. You always know it was a near miss with Bob when his right hand starts making a sort of ghetto motion as he was explaining the problem.

We finally got the throttle loosened just as the jeeps passed us up again. We put all our gear back on and passed the jeeps again for the second time, again they stopped as we shot by. As much as we try to be courteous, there always is a great deal of dust and dirt that we are kicking up.

We made our way back up “Old Government Rd”. We started to veer off to the right in a different way than where we came in but we decided that it looked to be heading up to the same ridge just

around the mountain on the east side. The further up the road we went, the rockier it got. I am talking about rocks the size of cats and dogs. For the most part the rocks would ricochet off the tires. Every once in awhile the front wheel would hit an “iceberg” which was announced with a sharp “peen” from the front rim. The iceberg looked like a smaller rock but it was fully anchored like its namesake with 2/3 beneath the surface of the trail.