Grumbler's note: It was during the 70s when Jack and I happened to own a
pair of identical 1973 Triumph 750 Bonnevilles. Mine was bought in Salinas 
and his in Santa Cruz. One of our weeknd rides was up to Clear Lake.
      

Skyline Boulevard from Santa Cruz to "Four Corners" was packed with tourists. 
The ride was hectic and we were glad to get off the drive, heading for 
Redwood City down below and ease back on the freeway and continued on to 
Oakland. 

Most of the time we have the Skyline Boulevard for ourselves and with other 
bikers who want to test our machines, skills and most of all "guts" against 
each another. Of course the stop at four Corners to see the other's work of 
art on their bikes was the highlight. 

But not this time... We found ourselves sitting in Tom's pad having smokes, 
drinking beer/wine, relaxing, enjoying each other's company and swapping 
outrageous "stories" on a three day weekend holiday which we already used up 
one day in Oakland. 

Suddenly, we decided to get out of this damn intense heat and go on a camping 
trip anywhere up north. Since it was Saturday afternoon we knew that finding 
an available camp site was next to nil but anything is better than this hot 
box.   

Using our Bonnys as tools of navigation we're dodging and weaving throughout 
the traffic with ease. But there is so much one can do in traffic jams. As 
we're "splitting lanes" some of the pissed off drivers, out of spite, 
suddenly throw their doors open to vent out their volatile anger when they 
are miserably stuck in traffic jams. I don't find this appealing, especially 
trying to peel myself off of some Ford LTD driver's door.     

I should "feel" for those who are confined in their four wheeled gas guzzler. 
But I don't! They could have move up in the world of two wheels. The gas 
crisis was in full force and threatening their way of life as they know it. 

Seems that, it's "us" against "them" world.  Thanks to the OPEC Nations and 
the freeway planners, we as American tax payers are fighting amongst each 
other on our nation's roadways.  Sad, but true... 

After leaving Oakland on a hot and muggy three day holiday weekend, battling 
through the I-80 chaotic rat race then turning towards north on highway #29 
heading towards Napa my stress factor "gauge" had reduced immensely. 
Few miles later we stopped and at the first winery in Napa Valley. 

The "Bonneville Boys," Greg, whom I'm packing, you, (packing our sleeping 
bags and gear were on this run) Tom, his wife, Olin and a few others that I 
can't remember their names caught up with us in Tom's VW Bus half an hour 
later. Soon we found ourselves sipping on free wines in the winery's Tasting 
Room.   

Greg, a biker bro, had a 1950 500cc Triumph in the process of rebuilding and 
custom work from the ground up.  When he finished the project, the original 
highly polished professionally painted stock black gas tank and frame reminds 
me of a low slung hill climber with chrome galore. Show room quality to the 
Max!  He had put a lot of thought and time into that bike. 

The road throughout Napa Valley was a slow an easy ride, no pressure and no 
rush. Just laid back and watched the world slowly passed by. We must have had 
hit every wineries in the valley and indulged ourselves with all their 
hospitalities and free drinks. By the time we arrived at Clear Lake I was 
swimming in a kaleidoscope world.   

From Clear Lake till I came to my senses at a camp site at Whiskey Springs on 
highway #20 between #101 and #1, I had lost a day.  Heck!  I woke up with a 
splitting headache at the river bottom next to my Bonny beside creek few 
yards off. The other campers were scattered near by.  Seems that we've had 
partied-hardied in those lost hours of mine. Sheeesh! 

The "Hippies" had made breakfast and invited us over. 

Bacon, eggs, hash browns, pancakes and piping hot coffee was served. 
  
A lot better than our usual. I guess having four wheels has it's advantage, 
as long it's a VW Bus or a van. 

After breakfast we checked our rides and packed our gear.  Some of the 
weekend regulars stopped by, saying that we were real lucky that there was no 
afternoon/evening storms at the mountains that weekend. 

They said the river bottom is well known for flash floods whenever the storms 
brew in the mountains.  It'll be dry here but you can bet the floods come 
down the creek and would have carried us, our camp and vehicles down the 
valley several miles below.   

"Lady Luck" is with us as I was thinking to myself. 

We didn't have any plans when we pulled out from the camp site. Just head for 
the Coast Highway and then south. That's the beauty of these runs. Some runs 
are planned to the blue prints and other runs we just spit in our palms, slap 
and follow.  Hell!  At least keep moving! It was getting hotter as the 
morning sun was climbing higher in the blue-grey sky. 

We sped along the winding forest road leaving the rest behind. With my levi 
jacket off and having the wind blowing in my face slowly cleansed my 
throbbing head from all the partying this weekend.   

At times I forget that I was packing Greg.  The only times I noticed that I 
was packing him is when I tried to power out of the curves. 

Hell! I weighed 235 LB and Greg probably weighed 175 LB. 

We've had reached the maximum gross weight of my Bonny if not more. 

We turned off on #1 heading south and pulled at a roadside "Mom and Pop" 
gas/store.  Did some sight seeing, bought some pop and waited for the rest of 
the gang to show up. It was refreshingly cooler on the Coast Highway. 
In fact, I had to put my jacket back on. 

I noticed the rear tire was low and checked it out.  Found a sliver of metal 
or wasted nail impaled in the tire.  Shit!  Not a bike shop open for the 
weekend and most M/C shops in the cities are closed on Mondays anyway.  I'm 
not a patch person, I like my inter tubes intact.  But in this situation the 
"patch" has to do. 

We all know what it takes to yank the wheel off the swinging arm, pull the 
tube out of it's rim/tire and put a cold patch on it... So, I'm not going to 
get in the mechanics of it.  HMMMM... 

Soon, we're cruising down the road, the bike feels good between my legs 
again.  On this particular stretch it had long loping curves. Perfect for 
keeping in high gear running at 70-75 mph without banking excessively.   

We had better make the best of it cause in about 20-25 miles further down the 
road will be nothing but "twisties," S-curves and short straights for about 
100 miles then we'll crest the Golden gate Bridge. 

Packing Greg or anyone else for that matter does take the fun out when we hit 
those types of combinations.  Although he does leans right and left with me 
perfectly. Still, the combined weight has it's limits. 

As we exited and cleared an apex of one of the curves which it led into a 
long straight stretch. I thought Greg was repositioning himself cause the 
rear end of the bike was wallowing a bit. 

"BANG!" the bike was fish tailing and the rear tire was flipping from one 
side of the rim to the other.   

What the F---!  We were still doing 70 mph and it just occurred to me that we 
have a "major" flat.  Every man for himself! 

The rear end of the bike went down but I did managed to keep the front wheel 
up, and followed the "dotted" line in the middle of the pavement.   

The bike went down on it's right side, still sliding in the middle of the 
road while Greg and I lifted our right legs up in the air and kind of sitting 
on the bike's left bank. I felt Greg bailed out then I followed soon after. 

The bike slided and bounced further down the middle of the lane in front me. 

I slid on my left rear pocket where I put my wallet and with my gloved hands 
dragging behind me till I slammed into the then resting bike.  
 
I ended up in a sitting position while my legs were straddling over the 
bike's seat and tank. 
  
A couple of seconds later Greg slammed into me from behind and his legs 
wrapped my waist. 

We're sitting there like we're in a two-man toboggan. 

From behind, tiny white feathered dust bunnies suspended in the air, 
blanketed the road and passed ever so slowly by... Gee, I thought that was 
odd. Come to find later out it was debris from Greg's "English Dockers" type 
pants that wore through to the skin of his ass.  His pants had a hole at the 
size of a small dinner plate. 

We quickly got up and asked each other if we were all right.  Then Greg 
walked to the side of the road while I proceeded kicking the tire like a 
crazed maniac. Yelling all kinds of obscenities.   

My sanity came back when you pulled up from behind and used your bike to 
block any traffic that happened to come along. You checked if we're okay and 
not bleeding profusely, or have head injuries, etc. 

You flagged down the first south bound vehicle that happen to be a first 
generation Ford Econoline van pick-up with two "Joe Regulars" guys in the 
cab. 

With your usual "tactful manners" you persuaded them to help you to move the 
bike and it's debris off the road.  
 
Remember, to these guys, their first impressions that we're the "Bad Ass" 
bikers from the low budget biker movies that were sweeping the movie theaters. 

Greg's hands, elbows and left side of his ass had road rash to the max.  We 
found some clean rags to wrap his hands and elbows up and he put other clean 
ones inside of his pants to cover up the cheek wound. Needless to say when he 
sat down he had to use his right side.   

I was lucky. My wallet was in my left rear pocket,( being a southpaw) riding 
gloves and my engineer boots took most of the "bump and grind" of the road. 
Of course the leathered wallet and gloves were obliterated to burnt shriveled 
pieces of masses.  I highly recommend wearing full leathers and after this 
stint I should have worn a helmet but I didn't. 

The "Joe Regulars" offered to haul the bike and us in their van pick up to 
Tom's pad since they are on their way home in San Francisco.   

I don't remember Tom's pack being around afterwards but they were, I guess... 
Must have been the shock. 

Shortly after, Greg and I found ourselves leaning against the back of the cab 
in the bed of the pickup heading south with the my Bonny between us.   

You were following us for a while then got tired of that and passed the pick 
up van so you can ride further up the road, pull over and have a smoke break 
and watch us go by.  A few minutes later you're behind us for some time then 
repeat the whole process again. 

It was long trip sitting in the bed of the pick up. Took the rest of 
afternoon and evening to reach the Golden Gate.  It wasn't the Joe Regulars 
fault. It was the homeward bound holiday traffic in the afternoon slowed them 
down.    

Greg wasn't complaining but I could tell he was in agony.  He kept 
repositioning himself and couple of hours later he went to sleep on his good 
side. I slept on and off all the way to G. Gate. When there was any sudden 
movements in the ride I would wake up to see the world moving backwards while 
my bike was pointed forward between me and Greg. It was just outright eerie! 

It was dark when we arrived at San Francisco side of the Golden Gate Bridge. 
The Joe Regulars pulled over to tell us that they decided to take us to our 
home in Santa Cruz.  Gee!  What a break. 

It was almost midnight when we finally put my Bonny in our garage and we 
invited the "Regs" in our humble abode and chatted with them for an hour or 
two since we never had a chance to.   

They had to leave to get home, sleep and get up in the morn to report for 
work. We said our byes and thank them. 

We gave the Joe Regs some more cash for gas and smokes for their run back 
home. 

Tired and sore, I went to bed wishing that I could cut work but dare not to 
cause I need a full pay check to get my Bonny back on the road.
 
As I was drifting into sleep thanked "Lady Luck" for the second time today, 
estimated the repairs in my head and asked myself where to for the next run? 

Note: Greg sold his "500" Trump and used the cash it to get a 70 Bonneville. 
He tried his damnedest on not sitting in the "Buddy Seat" again... 

-Jack   



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