Guy
Boutin's Motorcycle Touring and Travel Pages
Adventures in Sport
Touring with the Honda ST 1100, 1300 and the BMW 1200RT
Exploring North America...One Road
at a Time
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Guy
Boutin's Motorcycle Touring and Travel Pages
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Day 15 A cool Sierra morning greeted me this day. In a few minutes I'll be back on the road after a 4 day layover in the Hotel California, but first I had to check the tire pressure. I was quickly disliking that chore, it always seemed the stems were in a bad place, making it hard to get the gauge on. Several times I'd give up and just come back to it later when I had room to push the 1300, rotating them to a convenient spot. I sent Chris a text wishing him a safe trip, he was at the Sacramento Airport about to board. I stumbled around the residential area, trying to get back to the highway. The streets had no pattern, and wound through the woods and hills in a hodgepodge manner. By 6 am I was back on SR 4 on my way to SR 49, the route will take me almost to Oregon through the heart of California Gold Country. It will be slow, frequent population centers sit along the highway, and the curling roads through the hills are not conducive for high speeds. But no way I'm going near I-5, with all these great highways nearby. Near Murphy 3 does jumped in the bushes when they saw me. I noticed them before they me, and was prepared. In Angels Camp they clean the streets of the downtown business district the old fashioned way; a couple of guys with brooms. I saw them when I came through and picked up 49 north. It was a cool 46 degrees, so I fired off the heated grips. Nice. I had on the thick leather sport gloves, reducing some of the effectiveness, next time I knew to wear the textiles. A plump lady was jogging/walking along the highway, she labored and looked tired. "At least she has two shoes," my left side told the right, when I tried to snicker. The sun was rising in the Honda's mirrors, and the morning light was streaming between the trees and on the road surface, warming the chilly air. I was feeling warmer and turned the grips off, and brought the screen down to cruise position.
Although scenic, SR 49 was an ordeal of cars and delivery trucks most of the way into Placerville. It was early morning and people were on their way to work in nearby Stockton or Sacramento The curves were good with a nice surface, but I spent most of it looking at the back of some SUV. I managed a few open miles when I passed 3-4 just north of Jackson.
I followed a SUV pulling a Airstream into Placerville. After me, a trail of 10 cars labored, with no hope of getting around, all had to be patient. Often I've seen the American propensity to take to the highway with as many possessions as you can. This joker was a shining example. He had bicycles and mopeds dangling from the rear, and the top of the Yukon was loaded down. We both put our flashers on at the same time for a con store near the middle of the city. Me for peanut butter and jelly, him for gas in his 6 mile a gallon rig. The doors of the SUV swung open, and 3 kids jumped out, the mother not far behind left the dad to pump gas. I watched intently at the goings on, finally the father came my way. "Damn back roads, thought I'd try it, but I learned my lesson." "Yeah, this highway is too small for ya, best get back to the interstate." In no way did I want to encourage him to stay on 49, but if he did, I was prepared to chuck my sandwich and get on the road ahead of him. The kids were acting like kids, and he said, "sometimes I wonder WHY I take these family vacations." I didn't see any stores for running shoes in Placerville. North of Placerville SR 49 grew much more intense. It narrowed and the curves were technical, and traffic was absent. "No one wants to come to Oregon with me?" Not that I was complaining, I just thought it odd. The new Z6 on the rear was sticking very well, and I heeled the 1300 time after time. The twists came at me fast, I was upright a few moments. It was great riding. Along the route historical markers retold the story of the 49ers (not the football team, the gold rushers) and how the towns came and went as they moved among the Sierras seeking as the Indians recalled, "the yellow dust that drives the white man crazy." Great panoramas followed up the hills and down in the canyons. I saw a nice bridge in the distance and stopped for a few pictures. I wasn't covering much ground because of all the picture taking, but that was ok. If I saw something I wanted to remember, I stopped. I took 40 pictures in all on this day. Nothing is sadder than a 700 mile day, and all you have to show for it is 5 snapshots. Either you were on a interstate, or not having fun. When I return from a tour I can gauge the fun factor of the day, by how many pictures I took.
Traffic increased when I came closer to Auburn, effectively shutting down any hooligan riding I might have had in mind. Besides running shoes, I needed Plexus, I was almost out. When I arrived in Auburn, a significant city in these foothills, I felt sure I'd be able to find both. I was wrong, it was Monday and most cycle shops are closed. I discovered that when I jetted across 3 lanes of traffic, for a independent cycle shop, that catered to the Harley folks. "Well that shopping center has a BIG sporting goods store, at least I can find running shoes." Wrong again. The store was well stocked, but they were a discount place, and not going to stock the high tech, big ticket Asics models. Oh, they had Asics, but only the low end, which are fine for joggers and walkers. A shoe store sat in the shopping center across the street so I went there. They had specialty running shoes, but not Asics. "Fooled around here enough, I need to get moving." I wheeled out north grumbling, "I'll try one more time, after that I'm gonna give up and order a pair from my usual source. They will be there when I get home." I resigned myself to the fact there will be no more running till I get home. A nearby Flyers con store looked like a good place to gas up. I pulled to the pump and tried to pump gas but the vapor lock thing was a piece of junk, and wouldn't allow gas to flow. I hate those things, they are so dumb. They fear vapors escaping, but cows pass more gas, and that's the truth, the whole thing is silly. I had to push the 13 to the next pump to find a unit operational. I spent an hour in Auburn trying to buy necessities, and the only thing I left with was some hard earned gasoline. SR 49 connects Grass Valley with points south. The route is challenging, and the landscape excellent. Again I was leaning the many curves that seemed never ending as the route swept up the mountains.
A white van was moving slowly up the grades, I waited for my chance and bagged him quickly. A few miles later, I had to give up my spot, when I stopped for a picture. The things I do for y'all.
I looked for a easy to get to sporting good store in the city, and finding none pushed on to Nevada City, where SR 49 meets SR 20. I went left, following 49 so it could carry me high in the Sierras. The road made steep climbs and drops over timbered slopes, and runaway-truck ramps looked like lost ski jumps. The traffic areas of the southern portion of 49 lay behind me now, and the 1300 had clear sailing. The nearby Yuba River was beating itself into a lather, so I stopped again for more photos.
It had been a great morning, and by the time I arrived in Downieville, I was famished. Like most Sierra towns the city was founded in the Gold Rush era, dried up, and came back to life as a tourist spot. I cruised through the town to check options. A nice grill place with pizza looked good, but I was looking for something with a more local flavor. I failed to find one and came back to the pizza place. Here, you could order pizza by the slice. I picked up 2 slices of pepperoni, and took my food out front to the tables. Given the choice, I almost always prefer outside, unless the weather is crappy. Across the street 3 bikes stopped for gas. They rode through the parking lot of the pizzeria, and left. A few minutes later, they came back in, after discovering the same as I, that this was the best option. While I was eating a silver VW beetle pulled in, and 2 young girls went inside. They had just got back in the car when 2 boys came rushing up and started rocking it, forcing the young ladies to grab overhead straps. A big guy in a white T shirt and faded jeans looked in and said, "If I ever see this car going like this, I'm gonna beat your butt." The food was mediocre, not enough sauce.
SR 49 crossed a one lane bridge on the north side of town, and a short ride later I was back in the wilderness. I had another perfect day to ride, and to top it off I had a nice tailwind. It had been with me all morning, and I enjoyed its presence. I seldom have this much luck in one day, so took it as a good sign. I kept following SR 49, that follows the Yuba, that follows the valleys and canyons of this rugged, but beautiful country. I took evasive action when I saw 3 medium sized rocks scattered across my path in the north bound lane. It was like a slalom, I put the first one on my right, the next to my left, and leaned backed left for the final. Near Sierra City I went by a few old looking rental cabins, with a vacancy sign out front. The wood structures looked forlorn, as if begging someone to stop for a night. The sign still had a "BankAmerica" card emblem on display. BankAmerica changed names to Visa when? Thirty years ago? I pictured the inside of these cabins dusty, cobwebs hanging low, with old fashioned rotary dial telephones, on creaking desks.
Yuba Pass appeared and I made a mental note of the fact I'd just picked up another Sierra Pass. I make it a point to cross a different one on each trip. I marked the occasion with a few pictures. I was halfway to Oregon, and feeling good when I picked up SR 89, another smooth blacktop that cuts through high Alpine forests, valleys, and meadows. It was a great run on SR 49.
A long wait in a construction zone held me up between Blairsden and Quincy. For the first time in days, I was beginning to see clouds in the distance. Not rain clouds, but big puffy things. The riding had been good to this point and I hoped it would continue as I veered off 89 to SR 147, to run up the east side of Lake Almanor. The cut off saved several miles according to the atlas. The peaks of Lassen Park are off in the distance, and I was content. The water of lake glistened in the sun. Many ask how I consistently find such good riding, and the answer is, I seek it out. I look through my atlas at the lines, and get a feel. Sometimes I miss, but most of the time I do well. The Honda rolled up the gentle slopes and responded to my leans as we motored on. I was still resting easy on the throttle with the nice tailwind. It was getting late, and I realized I was going to arrive in Goose Lake about the same time of day as 2003.
When 147 ended at SR 36 I went right and vectored in on Susanville, where I planned to take a long break. The route in was mediocre and I was glad when the city came into view. I fell behind a vintage Triumph twin as soon as I entered the town limits. He turned off on a side street after a few blocks. The Golden Arches rose above the other signs on the fast food row near US 395, the faster more boring road to Oregon for those in hurry. A diet coke and oatmeal cookie tasted good, as I relaxed in a booth by the window. I like to see, it drives me crazy when I can't see outside, and I like to watch people coming in. I go to pieces if I have to sit with my face to the wall. Debbie called while I was sitting there, and asked what my plans were. "I'll be in Goose Lake tonight, and probably won't have a signal so talk to me." "How far is that from where ya are?" "Prolly 135 miles." Gearing back up at the bike a young boy emptying the trash cans told me matter of fact. "I'm saving to get a motorcycle, and when I get it, nobody is gonna be able to tell ME nuttin!" "Really?" I said, in the same tone as his. "and watcha gonna go out and do? Kill ya self?" "No just gonna ride and ride like YOU" "Son YOU ain't ready YET. Took me 30 years to get here, and I know riders all over working their butts off everyday, paying their dues." I figured the kid needed a lesson in the real world, "unless you hit the lottery, this is IT, go to work, have a boss, pay bills." "yeah, but I'm savin money." "well hell, you don't think them other boys ain't? It's good you got this job, but this is just the start, it gets better, but ain't nuttin give to ya, but stay focused, it will come." I gave him my card, "until then, go here, and see what awaits you." "Thanks mister." "Sure thing bud, and don't let'em tell ya you can't do it. I mean they will, but pay no attention." I know it sounds corny, but I think a reason for my long riding, is to help all I come in contact pursue their dreams, whatever they may be. God allows me this wonderful life, but I have to give something back. My message?- don't have to be rich, or anything special, just a desire, and a fire that won't go out; and you will know if you have it. Perhaps this chance encounter, at a McDonald's trash can, was by design, and one day, when Matt has completed his journey through early life, takes up the mantle of the Long Rider for those of another generation. Time for the road. I told Matt bye, and left the parking lot feeling important. SR 139 reminded me of the Paradox area of Colorado. High mountains looking down on green valleys. Riders back home would die to carve a road like this, but for me it was just another twisty highway out of hundreds.
I passed a lot of cattle land in the valleys. They were green, with thousands of cut and boxed hay bales waiting to be picked up. I questioned what makes a cow tick. I'd see a few hundred in the fields, with miles of pasture at their disposal, but they almost always congregated near the fences on the highway's edge. My inner voice told me, "Guy, they are like all living things, they want to be free." In 2003 I missed the entrance to Goose Lake State Park, and spent the night in a Lakeview flophouse. I vowed to more attentive this time, but I was tired that evening and smooth missed it, I'm a little tired now, but not close to 2003. I'm in much better shape now, and I know this, it takes A LOT of motorcycle riding to fatigue me. An opportunity for a photo op appeared when I saw a field of wild flowers, with decks of hay ready for pick up. The mountains stood in the back ground, and it would be a good time to move some blood in my legs. I geared the 1300 down as I came in off the
highway, set the stand, and snapped Americans are fiercely patriotic for several reasons. We are told all our lives we are the best and number 1, and that breeds a certain attitude, and I'd say probably not all good. The vast majority of us, believe you can be whoever you want to be, doesn't matter about your bloodlines, that stuff is checked at the door. If you told me the Royal Family of Saudi or Monaco was coming to town, I wouldn't think a thing about it, as long as I didn't owe them money, and THAT is why we love the flag so much. It is OUR only symbol of heritage and where we come from. I stood around 15 minutes just looking. The countryside was gorgeous, and peaceful. It was several minutes before a pick up came by. The driver threw up his hand in a friendly wave, and drifted into oblivion down the long road. By late afternoon I rolled into the SR 139, 299 intersection. Alturas was not far away, the last California outpost before the Oregon Outback. Clouds hid the sun at times, and their shadows swept across the green fields lazily. I'd been here before, and knew I was done leaning for the day. And that was ok. I've been in the curves almost 400 miles, and filtered through a hundred towns and villages. It was time to put down the tent stakes and call it a day. U.S. 395 took me north out of Alturas between the Warner Mountains and Goose Lake. The sun was setting over the lake just as it did in 2003, and I was glad I was here to catch a repeat. My shadow flipped along on my right dancing on fence posts, ditches, and tall grass. The overlook I stopped at in 2003 was easy to find, again it was photo time. I left the 1300 idling as I snapped a few from the saddle.
"The park is easy to find," Jerrol said back on The Hill, "right AT the state line, a nice place with big grassy sites, I've camped there before. I don't know how you missed it." I missed it because the sign pointing down the half mile road to the lake is small, and lost among several others, concerning speed limits and seat belt laws, the kind you see anytime you cross a state line. Speaking of which, the California-Oregon line is home to a cluster of old houses, a shut down store, and some kind of flea market. The area looked pitiful in the late afternoon light of a early summer sunset.
The small road was paved down to the park, and I dropped off my 8 dollars at the self serve registration. Jerrol was right, lots of nice campsites, I found what I thought would be a quiet spot (it was) and shut the 1300 down after a 495 mile day. My tent and bed were up in a few minutes and it was time for something to eat. Lakeview was still 10 miles north of here and I didn't ride this time of evening with so many deer crossing signs posted. I fixed a chicken sandwich and bummed a Diet Dr Pepper from the RV across the trail. I can be pretty resourceful when I need to. I really wanted to run, but couldn't with just ONE shoe. Unbelievably, I had one bar showing on the Motorola. I called Freestyle. "Hey did you find my glasses and shoe?" "Yeah, your glasses were next to where you washed your bike, and the shoe was under the bed. Damn, like havin one of the kids over." "Hush, just throw the shoe out, ain't worth shipping, and I just threw the mate in the trash anyway, I ain't carrying ONE shoe for 4,000 miles. But mail my glasses." I put the 1300 on the center stand and checked the rear for nails. I was thinking the nail I picked up was from the shoulder of the construction zone in Phoenix, and I rode with it the following morning all the way across the desert. I was lucky it went flat with plenty of help nearby, and not out in the middle of nowhere. Paranoid now, I felt better checking. It was ok. Next thing on the list was a shower. The facilities were ok, but nothing to write home about. Back at the table I made notes for the ride to Northern Oregon the next day. They call this area of Oregon The Outback for good reason. North of Lakeview it is remote, desolate, and dry. At least I didn't have to worry about rain. Darkness fell on the land around 10pm maybe later, and it was time for bed. I enjoyed a prerecorded TV show on my player and went to sleep. Excellent day. Next: a famous ride to Northern Oregon, and probably the toughest 60 mile run I ever put down.
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I cleaned up the outdoor table and fired up
the 1300. The day was still beautiful, as I traversed under a banner
that hung across Main Street, noting the up coming fireman's dance.
Tourists walked the streets, with locals hawking everything from T shirts to
guided tours. For a few bucks guides stood ready to take you down to the
Yuba River where you could panhandle for gold. I passed on all that, and
continued on.
away. A strong and steady wind blew
across the land. It flopped my helmet hair to my left. I was walking
around taking things in when I noticed the Stars and Stripes flying proudly in
the stiff wind, mounted on a fence post across the highway. Even way out here,
they fly flags EVERYWHERE. Just as we do in Alabama. We don't
have much in common with folks out here, but I don't really consider this land
as Northern California, I think of it as AMERICA. It's just named Northern
California or whatever. 
