The
next day, however, we were still exhausted by the day before. The extremes had
taken their toll and while most of us were up and moving by 7am, we were still
tired. The original plan called for over 400 more miles of riding that would
take is near the southern border of the state and back to Torrey again. We would
leave our tents in place and ride the bikes comfortably unencumbered. The more
we talked, however, the shorter the days ride became.
We walked a block to the next restaurant and had a fitful breakfast while we discussed the daily agenda. We would still ride the famous Highway 12 to the Devils backbone, but we could not decide if we would go all the way to Cedar City and back again. After Danny’s telling of the copious amounts of traffic and the long delays at the Zion National Park tunnel (not to mention scrutinizing park rangers after a three-motorcycle fatality a few weeks ago) we had ruled out that option.
As
we walked back towards the campground, we began discussing Dannys bike problems.
He had checked a spark plug and found that it was still running extremely rich.
I suggested we take the time to remove the tank, check the air filter and maybe
shim the airbox lid open to allow more air through the system. It started innocently
enough. Danny removed the body work, and then the tank. The underside of the
tank was covered with a thick film of dirt. The airbox looked to be in good
shape and the air filter was clean. I was concerned by how much the airbox moved.
So I looked underneath and the intake manifolds and discovered that they were
no longer attached to carburetors! We loosened the clasps and tried to pop the
airbox back down onto the carbs, but it wouldn’t go. So we pulled the
whole airbox off and noticed several hoses had come detached over time and looked
like they had been detached for a long time. Danny shocked all of us when he
commented “Wow! I’ve never been into my bike this far before.”
The
fact that Danny did not wrench as much as we assumed explained why his bike
had been running so poorly for so long. The intake manifolds had shrunk from
heat and would no longer stay in place over the carbs, so Danny and I used an
empty cardboard Cutthroat Beer packet to build some light and thin shim material
that we would use to help hold everything together. A little black tape, a old
metal fencepost as a straight edge, a pocket knife and we had some great shims
made up and installed. As much dirt as we cold remove, was cleared away and
the airbox reinstalled and firmly attached to the frame of the bike to hold
everything together.
Danny thumbed the starter button and the bike started with more ease than Danny could remember in a long time. The funniest part was that Eric was the only one to help Danny put his bike back together. We were all willing help disassemble and fix, but only Eric had the endurance to stick around for the work.
Danny
was up and running and we defiantly ready to ride, although it was already 11am,
Danny’s bike had ensured that today would not hold a whole lot of riding,
simply because we no longer had the required amount of time. Nobody complained.
On top of 12, it was a clear day; the clearest day I had ever seen on highway
12. The air was so clear that we could see all the way to Moab to the east and
what seemed like, all the way to the Grand Canyon to the South. Without a cloud
in the sky it was a spectacular day. We rode a few miles father, just south
of the small town of Boulder to reach the most famous part of the road. We had
been building Mike up to this for some time “If you liked 72 and Fishlake
Mike, you’ll love 12”. I don’t think that all of us talking
about 12 preparred Mike for the Devils Backbone.
A
small ribben of road that is bordered by 100+ foot drop-offs on both sides identify’s
the “backbone”. Danny was behind Mike as they approached the famous
corner Danny described Mikes riding. “He slowed waaaay down as he approached
the first backbone corner” said Danny “he looked to the left, looked
to the right then simply shook his head in disbelief.” Mike nooded in
agreement as Danny retold the story.
After our gawking we got back onto the bikes and rode only a few miles down the road to the Kiva Koffeehouse. I had watched as this building was slowly built over the past several years, but it wasn’t until earlier this year when Kris and I rode this road that I noticed it was finally open. Always ready for a phoofy coffee and a sweet snack, we rushed on over. The place offered stunning views and despite the ooky chanting sounds emanating from the speaker system was quite charming. I suppose the ooky chanting was good for tourists who probably assume that its traditional native American something-or-other.
After
the drinks we continued down highway 12, but only as far as the pavement wiggled.
As soon as the road became straight, we u-turned and began the journey back
towards Torrey. As we passed through Boulder, we pulled off to the right, to
re-ride the Burr Trail, the equivalent of a paved goat trail that wanders through
some pretty remote scenery before ending in dirt at the edge of the controversial
Grand Staircase National Monument.
We didn’t quite make it to the end of the pavement, but at one striking
view-point we pulled off and took way to many photographs while we joked and
teased a bit of the afternoon away.
Once back on the bikes, we returned to Boulder and without stopping raced our way over the alpine set sections of 12. It was now later in the afternoon and the majority of traffic had dissipated allowing us to ride at whatever speed we felt to be safe. It was great riding. Cool temperatures at the higher elevations, then plenty warm again as we dropped altitude again.
When we finally arrived back in Torrey we got gas at the Texaco that offers a small g0-cart track in addition to fuel, soda-pop and potato chips. At only five dollars a car with a free slice of pizza, we plopped down the cash, donned our helmets and raced to choose our cars. It was time for some good old fashioned racing!
After
donning all our gear, a crowd of spectators drew around, drawn by our loud behavior.
One spectator even asked if track provided the helmets and gloves. I thought
that was an interesting question, he was probably thinking that’s nice
stuff. Once we got our safety lecture and the engines were running, the race
was on. I was second to the last, and by the first corner I was already disappointed
by the go-carts lack of power. There would be no need to run at anything other
than full-throttle and anyone tempted to use the breaks would be forced to endure
last place.
Kris and Loretta were sharing the car in first place, Danny held second, Mike Third, Eric and Dawn shared fourth, I was in fifth and Clay held sixth. I had my work cut out for me. Hard-charging into the corners, the cart had no where near enough power to even pass the dually-loaded cart toting Eric and Dawn. It wasn’t until they allowed me to pass that I was able to challenge Mike. Following him through every corner, until I was able to wear him down and stuff him through turn 4. He later said that he let me pass too. Yeah right…
Next I had was coming up on Kris and Loretta who were battling with Danny for
the lead. Danny made it into the lead, leaving me to battle Kris and Loretta.
They were giggling so much that I was easily able to pass them going into corner
1, which left me and Danny to battle for the lead with only two laps to go.
Side by side we raced down the back straight-away, Danny was hanging onto the
side of my go-cart to keep me from passing, but down the straight-away I was
finally able to nudge passed him to take the lead. Then everyone teased me for
taking things so seriously.
After the racing, we headed back to the campground and headed over to Café Diablo for another evening meal before heading back to the campground where we lit a huge fire and sat around sipping brewski’s and telling stupid stories until the wee hours before turning in.
The
next morning, Danny and Loretta had to head home and Scott and Clay had another
week in Colorado planned so we split up. Mike, Eric, Dawn, Kris and myself headed
north, but not before we planned a quick stop in Loa to check on the little
red Hawk that we noticed for sale on our way in. The five of us stopped in front
of the bike and started pawing over it to see if it was worth finding and talking
to the owner. Cosmetically, it was a little rough, but overall in great shape.
Miles were a smidge high, but Hawks are known to last well into the 200k miles
range without problems. Eric asked at a local restaurant where the owner was
and rode over to find him while we all sat around checking out the bike. Dawn
seemed a bit unsure. Eric returned a few minutes later saying that the owner
was “a bit of hick”, which was not near enough of a warning for
who would arrive a few moments later.
Now, in all fairness, Beufurd (as we’ll call him) seemed to be a great guy. The kind of guy who would spend two hours helping you out of a bind then refuse to take a dime for the trouble, but the way he presented himself was too good to not put down on paper.
By about the time Eric had gotten off the bike, a multi-colored, early 60’s Chevy pickup pulled up. He wore no shirt, stained yellow shorts, three pairs of underwear, gray wool knee socks pushed down and bunched up around his ankles and suede slip-on shoes. His black tussled hair looked as though it hadn’t seen a brush or a comb since his last haircut and his cheap sunglasses were perched on his face at a silly angle making him look like he was continually cocking his head. His chest, free from the confines of muscle tone, proudly displayed about 18 individual strands of black hair and a strange goiter bulged out from above his navel.
As we discussed the Hawk, its condition and its history, Mike aptly described; “couldn’t say 3 words without the need to pick at some part of his body unsubtly.” His continual groin adjustments were enough to ensure that we all avoided looking directly at him; I was plenty embarrassed for him as well as myself.
We
asked a few questions, started the bike and Eric took it for a brief ride to
discover that it was running fantastic! We did not disclose this information
to “Beufurd”. The more questions we asked, the more information
he disclosed that aided us in getting a better price on the bike. Mike described
it as “Like sharks drawn to blood” Eric and I tag teamed him berating
the abused Hawk publicly to devalue it in the eyes of the owner. After a long
discussion how several local’s were willing to pay his asking price we
were able to convince him that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush and
that Eric would give him the money for the bike right now.
Now the Hawk, despite a few cosmetic flaws that could probably be cleaned back to perfection, was in quite good shape. “Beufurd” was attentive enough to have regularly changed engine and fork oil and despite the protective layers of grease an dirt, a few “bumps and bruises” the bike had survived the past 14 years quite well. A good bath would make all the difference.
Dawn didn’t feel up to riding the bike the 300 miles home not to mention
the cheng-chin front tire mismatched to the Bridgestone rear that had seen much
happier days we opted to leave the bike behind and Eric and I would return the
next day with a pickup to fetch the forlorn cult-bike.
We followed “Beufurd” to his humble abode to deposit the bike,
collect both sets of keys and the paperwork and finalize any loose ends. Throughout
the length of his driveway that ended at the gaping mouths of two weathered
barns lay an eclectic collection of 70’s motorcycles, abandoned farm equipment,
expired pickup trucks and three small goats competing for green grass. “Are
those pigmy goats?” asked Eric. “Nope, just babies. Their ma’s
tied up in the back.” replied Beufurd. “They probably do a good
job at keeping the grass down” said Eric. True to form, Beufurd proudly
replied with; “Yep, and they’re good eatin’ too!”. Dawn
responded as best she could with an empathetic “Aawww”.
But the deal was made, hands were shook and we were on our way. “Beufurds” antics gave us plenty of ammunition for awesome jokes all the way back to Salt Lake. We left Loa in our mirrors and raced back up 72, back onto the heavily patrolled 10, where we stopped half-way for gas and Ice-Cream. More “Beufurd” jokes were told before we continued our journey by travlening to Huntington, Huntington Canyon and Scofied. It was in this canyon that I was feeling playful and raced ahead of the group so I could get a few action shots and one flyby video of Mike and Kris. Boy that Triumph sounds good!
We
attacked Indian School canyon again on our way to Duchesne, before returning
back towards the Wasatch Front via Wolfcreek Pass. After gassing in Duchesne
we saw quite a few very disturbing sights! Three times my radar detector went
crazy and three times we passed unethically unmarked plain-clothes patrollers.
Three black Detroit SUV’s with no markings on them at all save a modestly
sized gold decal in the windows above the rear-wheels were each in the process
of ticketing drivers. Impossible to identify, each one we saw was happily taxiing
without representation unsuspecting motorists traveling entirely empty country
roads. When we had dealt with drivers crossing into oncoming lanes of traffic,
alcohol smells so strong that they could be detected as the car passed and kids
climbing over the seats while dad chatted obliviously on his cell phone, it
was upsetting that the only law enforcement we saw was for speeding... Forget
“To Serve and Protect” it was more like “To Observe and Collect”;
it was sickening.
Anyway, we made it back to Kamas and Park City without incident and only sore tooshies and empty stomach to greet us back to the Wasatch Front, so the five of us stopped for one more meal before ending the weekend. Eric, Dawn, Mike, Kris and myself stopped for a nice dinner to discuss Dawns new acquisition, unmarked speed enforcement and great roads before heading down into the heat of the Salt Lake Valley to prepare for work the next day.
| Part 1 |
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