Hooligans

"Hey, what're you guys doin' here?" I asked as I rolled to a stop at the Valley Cafe, about 15 minutes after the tour was supposed to have left. At first Brad and Alain didn't recognize me, as my bike was an unfamiliar R100GS in a most unlikely purple paint job.

"Haaaaay! The tour had about 15 million people on it, so we thought we'd do our own ride, maybe do some dirt." Brad and Alain were both ex-tourleaders, and knew well that big groups were both hard to manage and hard to ride in. My ears perked up immediately at the sound of "dirt"; the prospect of donking around on a few fireroads was tantalizing.

"You guys mind if I tag along? That is if you're not looking for goat trails or figure I'd slow you down too much. Kinda rusty off road these days." It had been about 15 years since I sold the Honda XR350 and hung up my enduro boots. I figured I had a lot to relearn, and struggling to keep up with a couple of hot shoes like these two would have been a drag for all concerned.

"Nah, might be kinda fun. We figured we'd follow the tour route to lunch, then pick up some firetrails that'll dump us out close to Chester."

"Lead on, McDuff! I'll just sit in the back and catch up when I can. This thing ain't exactly greased lightning, you know." Sixty horsepower was about half what the K12RS put out, something that had been evident on the frantic freeway cruise to the meeting point.

"That's OK, we'll wait if we make a turn. Why don't you take the route sheet just in case?"

These guys are the best! One minute I'm figuring on a long lonely ride to Lake Almanor, the next I've got two buds willing to take me under their wings and show me a few trails along the way. Now this is what I call a motorcycle club!

Well off we went, Alain leading the way across hill and dale, passing cars when we were able, plonking along when we had to, flying low when we could. The flying bit wasn't exactly to the GS's liking, as it had a bad habit of shaking its head in 70+ mph sweepers. A little more preload and a lot more rebound damping hadn't gotten rid of it, and the best I could manage was a queasy wallow if I got far forward against the tank. Guess the front end was sprung a little stiff for a light weight like me or something. Nothing like a club ride to bring out the best in a new machine... We stopped a time or two for a drink of water or gas, and eventually caught the tour at the Sierra Nevada Brewing Company restaurant in Chico. They were just getting their food, so we ordered and compared notes while we waited for our meal.

Brad and Alain were curious how I liked the R100GS, it being such a radical departure from the K1200RS I've been riding for the last 18 months. "Well, its gonna take some gettin' used to" became my standard reply. The wobbly suspension was a concern that hadn't been fixed by the new Ohlins shock out back, and my right wrist was complaining about the heavy throttle springs. Beyond that, though, the riding style was a lot like my old K75S, where the idea was to carry a lot of speed through the corners 'cause you didn't have the beans to get it back quickly if you braked too much. And the GS's handling was much lighter than the RS, something that made diving into an apex something to be approached with a much gentler touch.

About that time the goodies showed up, complete with malted milk shakes that tasted absolutely wonderful. Even though we attacked the feast with great vigor, Mr. Love and his merry band were done and gone before we had made much of a dent. That was fine, as we were abandoning the tour route anyway. Lunch concluded with only a few ribbing jests about riding over cliffs and waist deep river crossings, we headed out into the very warm sunshine and back out onto the road.

Brad had it in mind to tackle Cohasset Road, which heads northeast just a little north of Chico. On the way to it we passed by Ozzie's BMW where our waves were returned by the customers in the parking lot. The AAA map showed Choasset changing names to Ponderosa about 5 miles past the town of that name, and the road became dirt about that time, too. Almost as soon as the wheels touched the gravel all those newbie dirt riding bad habits resurfaced: handlebar death grip, overreacting to every little slip or slide, picking stupid lines and slowing down too much in the bends; all those things I'd tried so hard to learn my way around on the Honda. School was open and this was the first day back in class. I let my young friends go so I wouldn't be eating dust (that was the easy part) then concentrated on relaxing and staying on the gas. After a while the old rhythm started coming back and riding got easier, even as the road became progressively narrower, rockier, and steeper. As I crested a rise between what could have been Barkley Mountain and Flat Iron Mountain, there were Brad and Alain relaxing in the shade checking out a map. A quick chat with a local on a 4-wheeler confirmed we were in about the right place, and time was such that we could afford to take the longer dirt route we were hoping for. Back on the trail with my leaders comfortably out of sight I ran across my first real challenge of the day: A very large tree all the way across the road. There was a little trail up over the bank to the left that went around the end of the tree, so I aimed for it and up and over we went. I was startled that it was so easy I brought the bike to a stop as I got around the end of the fallen giant, only to find out that I had to get down another bank or go through a ditch to get back to the road. With only a couple of feet to get going again the ditch seemed the most survivable, so off we went crashing and banging in first. Things happened real fast, but I remember the windshield coming very close to the helmet's eye port, and the front wheel floating a bit off the ground, but back on the road we shot. More winding and bouncing followed, with a few bouts of pickup truck dust, until the next obstacle presented itself: a stream crossing. I knew from my mountain biking that the best way to do this was to accelerate through it, so I braked and downshifted, then gave it a little gas. The revs whipped up but no pull on the bars resulted: I was in neutral. Stupid newbie tricks again! Kicking it down got things back on course and after a quick splash the 8 feet of wet stuff was behind. Drama concluded it wasn't long before I could see a paved road paralleling my course off to the right, a sure sign that this little adventure was coming to an end.

Only a few minutes later we were at a grocery store in Chester, and Brad was offering to cook dinner for Alain and I. What a guy! We made the meeting just in time for Alain to relate his Estorian's Report, and I to make my usual pitch for help running next year's '49er Rally. After the meeting, little more GSing got us to the shore of the lake and a refreshing swim that didn't seem to last nearly long enough. Sure felt great gettin' out of the dust and sweat though! Dinner was tasty and after a few campfire stories it was off to bed.

Sunday dawned bright and cool, and many of those present agreed it would be a shame to be this close to Quincy and not catch a scrumptious breakfast at Morning Thunder. Alain and Brad made noise about riding some more trails on the way home, and allowed as I'd be welcome if I wanted to tag along again. YeeHaw! We dallied around long enough that most folks departed before us, but caught some of them where the gravel road from the campsite met the pavement. Just before Greenville we caught a few more, and I gotta admit to a certain thrill in passing a couple of K1200RS riders while riding that weezy old GS. The sweepers down to the Hwy. 70 junction were as amusing as ever, and the wobbling was kept to a minimum with body English and a light touch on the bars. Being the first in Quincy got us a table after only 20 minutes (it was Sunday morning, after all), and during the wait we had the opportunity to watch the rest of the gang pull in. As the helmets came off the smiles came out, as did the bantering between the GSers and the pavement pounders. One of the R1100RSers even had the audacity to call us Hooligans! Seems he was concerned about our pell-mell approach to passing everything in front of us and our somewhat brisk pace through town. We all wrote it off to a healthy case of enthusiasm, and I reflected on how tame our antics appeared after the two weeks I'd just spent racing around the Alps with those crazy Italian and Austrian motorists!

A huge breakfast was followed by a boisterous romp over the Quincy Laport Road, something I'd seen only from inside a 4WD pickup truck till now. It turns to dirt near the top of the mountain, and stays that way most of the distance to Little Grass Valley Reservior. And there's plenty of wildlife to be seen: a blacktail deer tried to jump into my lap, then decided to race me down the road for a spell. I was more than happy to let her win, as she was trying to accelerate about as hard as I was to brake! The road around the reservoir and on to Feather Falls is a tiny, twisty little thing, and vaguely reminiscent of some of the less traveled Alpine passes I'd seen in Italy. About the same width, and there were some switchbacks, but where the Italians had lovingly groomed their road the Americans had neglected theirs so that branches hung into it and sand and gravel often infested the corners. Back in the U S of A!

Try as we might we couldn't find a way around Oroville, where Brad stopped for a new taillight bulb and Alain and I tanked up on cool beverages. It was late and hot enough that we decided to slab down to Stockton, then indulge in one last romp over the old Altamont Pass on remnants of the Lincoln Highway. Brad yielded the lead and that little GS seemed to fly through those familiar corners. By the time I'd waved goodbye to Brad and Alain at Hwy. 84 in Livermore, I knew I'd found a new friend in this purple machine, and felt exceptionally lucky to have two buds like Alain and Brad to show me the ropes along the way!

Scot Marburger

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