just for today, I hate small towns. Sure they're charming, full of history, and on average have a much higher percentage of friendly people than the big city. But to be stranded in one, as we have been for a week now, is an entirely different matter. A person can't get things they need in these little burgs. Particularly, if what one needs is a 12 mm hex tool for a torque wrench. Above a certain elevation they don't even know they exist. But I digress.

A week ago, my wife/journalism partner, Patti, and I took off for Northern California on a magazine assignment with high hopes of a wonderful week on two wheels. We looked forward to the change in scenery in anticipation of a stimulating and profitable adventure.

Fate, unfortunately, had other plans. In retrospect, there were omens from the beginning foretelling that this trip could turn out badly, but I chose to ignore them. Because of circumstances beyond our control, departure was delayed a day.

In spite of that, the ride got off to a great start. We left the south valley at five AM and beat the worst of the heat. Excited and optimistic, we had a double magazine assignment and a couple weeks off of work. To make our schedule, though, we had to ride from Bakersfield to almost the Oregon border in one day...600+ miles...no big deal, have done it before.

Traveling up the San Joaquin Valley is largely an exercise in boredom. Interstate five is one long piece of slab and the sameness of the farmland soon turns into wallpaper. Things do get interesting traveling along the California Aqueduct, though. Whether you approve of it, or disparage it, undeniably it is an impressive piece of engineering.
The California Aqueduct is amazingly impressive and it's easy to see why it's such a point of contention. That is a lot of water to be siphoning from the North to quench the thirsty southern portion of the state.

Having never driven the five farther North than the San Francisco turn-off, driving through Stockton,Ca, took me completely by surprise. I kept seeing signs for the Stockton Harbor, which I kept thinking was some kind of metaphor. It was a shock, to say the least, when the bike started rolling over a very large bridge and there were huge ships below. These were big ships, looking as if they should be in the ocean; it was a river port, of course. I hadn't even thought of that.

The character of the ride really changed after going through Sacramento. The term that keeps coming to mind is, less muscular, as if finally not having to move all that water, the land and the people could relax a little bit. The ride proceeds nicely until just short of Redding, Ca. Patti, who was sitting behind me, usually the trooper of troopers, signals me urgently to stop at the upcoming rest stop. A good idea, actually, as the bike had been feeling not quite right for a number of miles. She gets off the bike and when she takes off her helmet, I see that she is shaking and weeping. A combination of too much caffeine, not sleeping well the night before, and just plain fatigue had caught up with her. I was, obviously, upset and fatigued too because, when I went to put the RT on the center stand, I tipped her over. She went down on her right side and when we picked her up we found the drivers peg broken off. Not Good. Redding was only a few miles away but it was getting late.

We jumped on the bike and I managed to drive her in with my heel on the peg stump. Stopping on the outskirts of town, we inquired about a bike shop. A clerk gave us some vague directions to a Harley dealer....Closed. We rode down the street and my wife spotted a Cycle Gear. Perfect. Tricky entrance, though, and a wrong turn put us back on the freeway. I found a place to turn around and headed back in the right direction, but before we even get to Cycle Gear, we spy a KTM/Adventure bike shop. Perfect, they should have a little bit of everything, right? Closed on Monday! Damn. Back out on the main street, and with a lot of help from my co-pilot, we get maneuvered through what is now rush hour traffic on a main drag, back to Cycle Gear.... Open, perfect, and it’s a nice big one.

A very amenable young man at the front desk listened to our story only to inform us that he had "sold his last set of highway pegs yesterday; however, he could call around the shops." Good. The calling turns out to be of little value as most of the shops are closed on Monday. That left us with one final option, the Honda shop.

Mercifully open on Monday, and until 6, which was particularly important because we were now fighting impatient, home-bound, traffic every step of the way. Made it to the Honda dealer before closing, I was, again, greeted by a most amenable young man at the parts counter who most regretfully informed us that he just didn't have any pegs. When pressed he agreed to go to the back room and look in what he called "Honda Stock." For “something.”

He's gone for a while, so leaning as calmly against the parts counter as I can, to wait, I notice Patti off in some dark corner of the shop rooting around for something. The young man comes back with a peg that looks very much like it will work, albeit awkwardly. Together we stroll back out into the merciless sun to check out the bike.
The peg initially looks like it will work just fine. Next task, get the remaining piece of peg out of the Beemer. This turns out to be quite the task as the fall had badly bent the pin that holds the peg. After making several trips back to the shop area for various tools the pin finally gives up its grip, only to discover that it was one of those, close, but no cigar moments.

As this young man and I sat there among our tools and broken Beemer parts, more or less pointlessly scratching our heads, Patti shows up with a purple blister package containing a very shiny pair of chrome, Victory brand highway pegs. The young man in question was very surprised to see them, but Patti in her usual detailed, and systematic manner, had searched the store and found them abandoned on a dusty shelf somewhere.

They fit almost perfectly, with the pin alignment just slightly out. The boys in the shop made short work of that problem with a slightly smaller bolt and a couple of washers.

Good Work.

Still hot as hell and apparently, at least to us, it was getting more humid. A retreat into Denny's, across the street, brought much relief. Inside the Denny's, I learned yet another lesson in the quality of my character judgment. We had asked for one of the big corner tables so we could spread out our helmets and jackets and maps, along with all the other stuff motorcycling entails. We were put into a dark, corner table, which was perfect.

I kept eyeing, in my judgmental way, the threesome at the other corner table across the restaurant. It looked to me like an unscrupulous evangelist with a guitar was trying to do the conversion number on a hapless, older, couple. I couldn't have been more wrong.

After I thought they had left, I went out to get something off the bike. The "evangelist" was hanging around outside, leaning on the railing, with a cigarette, looking for a light.

It turned out to be, in my mind, anyway, a pretty tragic case. He was a middle-aged man, suffering from depression, living with his parents, and taking guitar lessons. It turned out that we had lived near each other, in Michigan, many years ago. Extraordinary.

Rested and with some food in our stomachs, we mounted Black Beauty for the final 45 miles into McCloud. After a day’s ride of over 500 miles up the length of the great valley, some real motorcycling, at last. Redding is, basically, at the bottom of the ascent up to Mt. Shasta. Interstate 5 turns from a soulless slab, at last, into a real motorcycle road. At the beginning of the ascent is Shasta Lake. Shasta Lake has a fractal-like shape with many long fingers extending for miles. This makes for a lot of bridges and many great views. It’s a visual feast of a ride, with great twisties thrown in for good measure.

The bike was not right, though, something was catching and grinding. Power was still being transferred, without interruption, to the rear wheel, but I could feel it. A turn off of Interstate 5, onto Highway 89, quickly deposited us at our destination.

We ground into the parking lot of The McCloud River and Ski Lodge and dragged ourselves into what appeared to be the office. The woman at the front desk, actually a corner of the bar, informed us we were late and she would take care of us in a minute. She turned out to be one of the owners, who was doing duty as both front desk clerk and bartender. Fair enough, it gave us a chance to survey the place and get a feel for local culture. Inside, the restaurant/bar/lounge was very attractive, having the feel of a Yosemite lodge, with unfinished pine construction, as well as old west and American Indian decorations. At the bar, sat a number of middle-aged men, sporting pony tails and overalls, or dressed in fishing regalia. I had one of those “uh-oh” moments as the theme music from "Deliverance" started playing on my mental soundtrack and one of the first comments I heard from the bar was, "There's only one kind of beer and that's Budweiser!" The comment was met with general agreement along the length of the bar. After a fairly short wait, we were given the key to room number 4 and were able to retreat to our own company.

Finally, able to unload the heavy pannier bags and trunk, the bike could be center-standed and the rear wheel raised for examination. One thing was immediately apparent, the rear brakes were metal to metal. Not sure if this was because the tech that changed the rear tire, just before we left, did not properly torque the calipers, or because I rode the brakes while riding on a peg stump, or a combination of factors.

Unfortunately, in the attenuated tool kit I brought on this trip, I did not have a large enough hex tool to remove the calipers so it was impossible to tell, at this point, if the grind was just brakes, or, if God forbid, another rear drive was failing.

In the next installment, the downhill descent continues…