Feeling a bit tired after the day's ride and there being no other available seats, I made a basic error in judgement and sat down at the head table just as Ray was launching into the Club's business report at the Eagle Lake campout. Being out of it, it took several pokes from the only other party seated at the table before I realized I was being queried as to how I got to the meeting and had I been a part of the tour. After the question sunk in and not being astute enough to see where it was leading, I allowed as how I had been numbered a part of the tour or at least one of the contingents. After opening me up in this fashion, Pat Gardner, my inquisitioner, proceeded to cajole and threaten me into writing an article for the club news. I offer this as a warning to other members who may someday likewise be taken by surprise and as an apology to any I might offend by my comments. Pat insisted that I describe how I saw the ride and so I shall try.
This ride, as with some others, began as a take off on the theme of "magical mystery tour". The mystery being just where was the jumping off point. Now, everyone in Livermore and possibly Contra Costa County probably knows where Lyon's Restaurant in Livermore is. Furthermore, there was even a map in the club newsletter. But being gifted with an innate sense of direction and a master's degree in geography, it only took me three passes and an illegal U-turn into K-Mart's parking lot to get to the place. Normally, I wouldn't mention such contretemps, but Suzi in Red arrived just after me and complained it took her two passes, braggart. But the important thing is that we got there before the appointed 8:30 departure time. Riders continued to show up until at 9:15 we had a full contingent of eighteen bikes -- Diane Gibson was the only two-up and she swears she's going to be riding her own machine soonest. The long awaited departure was made and we took a short freeway ride; one mile later we abandoned freeways for the first of our country roads. I noted a different party of Beemer riders just as we exited the freeway - it looked as thought they might be having a poker run right there in our own backyard, so to speak. Getting away from the Bay Area is always a trick and the first selection of roads did just what was needed - a non-freeway route out of the Bay Area's congestion. There were of course the usual number of obstacles in the form of Sunday drivers and Winnebagos which forced us into a speed-up-and-wait mode. Somewhere along this stretch, we lost our first rider as I later was to count only seventeen bikes.
We first crossed the Sacramento at Antioch, only to make it up the road and take a ferry to begin what was a glorious morning of delta levee roads. Allow me a brief description of a typical delta levee road. It is basically wide enough for two VW bugs to easily pass in opposite lanes but not much else. And then six inches beyond the white stripe on the side of the road there is a 50-60 degree slope which leads down 20-40 feet. There are lots of beautiful turns with absolutely no bank and if you bugger it, you get a chance to try flying your bike. Needless to say - but I will anyway - the tour shook itself out into the basic pattern of the tour leader and an entourage of high speed racers followed in turn by the less blood thirsty, or shall we say more cautious folk. The dynamics of a tour are of course fascinating. The real aggressive, balls-to-the-wall types usually take the lead with a bit of jockeying for the first five or so positions. Us more cautious folk tend to fall back a bit, as if believing we won't have to ride as hard in the back of the group. But then enters what Ray Hutchins refers to as the rubber band effect. Of course everyone gets into the spirit of keeping up and the head of the tour with its aggressive types sets what seems to be a reasonable pace - 60+ mph. But the back of the tour - in order to just stay up, winds up doing 70-90 in bursts. This effect increases in proportion to the number of bikes in the tour and with the amount of urban riding being done as stop lights and other vehicles manage to break into the tour.
We made a quick stop in the outskirts of Sacramento to pick up the raffle prizes outside of a 7-Eleven - always wondered where the raffle prizes came from - and then on to a tour of some of Sacramento's finest real estate. Really, I couldn't believe some of those river shacks. Who in their right mind would want 2-10 thousand square feet of brand new house built on stilts on the wet side of a levee overlooking the Sacramento River? Not that we had time for any open house tours, the road was definitely a New Deal and required your full attention. I mean to say that the last time it was paved was in Roosevelt's New Deal. But we screamed, weaved and generally had a swooping good time doing the pot hole dodge on up to Marysville.
Now Marysville is, as you may remember, one of those archetypal California crossroad towns. Seems that in order to get anywhere, you have to go through Marysville or one of its twins. Well, we made a short pit stop at the local park for rest and refueling and decision making. The original tour plan called for some dirt road - 10 to 15 miles of it up over a small mountain - and some of the riders were a bit chary of taking their street machines into the gravel. I personally had had enough of loose gravel and dust at the national rally and the suggestion of taking the Feather River route appealed mightily. But come decision time and Greg Gibson, our stand-in tour captain, waffled a bit as to which way he personally wanted to go - his GS seemed to be swaying him toward the dirt and dust. By the time I got back from refueling, the decision had been made and Greg announced that the men would be taking to the dirt - I wondered how Diane was classified in this - and the others would be going by way of the Feather River led by Dave. Now I had fond memories of the Feather River Road from other rides, lots of sweepers, nice road surface, the biggest problem I remembered was some humongous pine cones that occasionally were seen on the side of the road. So, I was all for the Feather River and made my commitment. Then I remember asking "Dave?" - I have all the recall of a gerbil at critical times - and Greg replied "Dave over-there-on-the-Kawa". Sure enough, I turned and there was "NINJA DAVE" with the Feather River contingent saddling up ready to be on their way. Now I want you to know that I'm really not all that bigoted about other kinds of bikes, but seeing that Ninja, pretty as it is, started all those nasty little comments running through my mind. You've heard them all I'm sure, like "Ninja riders are all balls and no brakes" and what does Ninja mean in Japanese but "ASSASSIN". So with such thoughts running through my head I turned back to Greg, who by now was assembling the GS and other crazies preparatory to going and playing in the dirt. Those were the choices or I could find the campground on my own, and given my proven success with finding Lyon's in the middle of Livermore, Feather River was the obvious choice. So the "Majestic Twelve" rode out of Marysville behind Ninja Dave in the heat of the August afternoon for our tour de force (or was it "farce").
At a quickening clip we found our way up the Feather River and its grand sweepers. There are the usual numbers of horse trailers, and campers there to provide us with obstacles to practice our riding skills against. You know you can pass them, it's just a matter of gauging relative speeds and avoiding the CHP's obsession with your strict adherence to double yellow lines. I think there were several tunnels and lots of fast water in the river. We were really getting into it when I happened to glance up and note a really impressive outcropping of stone across the river. I have these momentary lapses from time to time, and as I briefly hesitated to look, three bikes and what I believe was a little old lady in a Porsche passed me. It's not being passed that's the problem, it's the trying to act like you don't care. As I had expected, we didn't see anything of Ninja Dave until thirty miles from the 89 turnoff to Greenville where we found him waiting for the non-ninja turtles to arrive. Once again reunited, Dave gave us all a thorough description of the turnoff and expected route to Greenville and a ten minute head start. Naturally he was waiting for us at the corner in Greenville when we arrived.
Now beautiful downtown Greenville has its own mystery. There were four restaurants on the main corner but three of them were closed and so we settled in for a quick bite at the remaining one before the manly dirt riders showed up. Those folks would undoubtedly be too manly to bother with anything as wimpy as lunch after eating all that dirt. The main controversy in town deals with owls and rangers - probably the local high school teams. Greenville obviously does not believe in fast food, but the waitress was a sweet young thing and the boys were willing to cut her some slack while flirting. Sensible Suzi must have guessed at the tradeoffs in service and flirtatiousness and went across the street for an ice cream. She was finished and gassed up before we got our orders in. Still all in all, we had plenty of time to kill while waiting for the dirt riders to show from their short cut across the mountain. In the wait I was pleased to note Ninja Dave engrossed in conversation with a new comer from the city. It's always nice to see old members showing an interest in newbies.
The eventual arrival of the manly dirt crowd - some half hour after the Feather River rowdies - occasioned a debate as to which way to finish the last 60 miles into the campground. As the hour was getting late and knowing how punctual Ray is with starting the meeting we wound up taking the direct route, which didn't go through Susanville. Greg Gibson later took the section of road we were supposed to have ridden and said that despite reports from two sheriffs departments to the contrary, it was mostly deeply rutted dirt and gravel - so much for roads not taken. The last sixty or so miles started off with our usually jaunty clip only to run afoul of some local contractor's debris scattered along the road over several miles. When we left Greenville, I was sure there were still several bikes behind me. After avoiding the debris I realized that I was the last in the tour. A short wait confirmed that at some point we had lost three bikes. Concerned but unsure as to where they might have stopped, or for what reason, and being almost at the turnoff to the campground, it was decided that we would push on and hope for the best. They did show a while later after having repaired a tire. It seems that Mike Crawford had had the misfortune to run afoul of a piece of lumber. I suspected the rubber band effect. The resulting ding was reported to have left you able to see the inside of the tire. But a friendly local lent a hammer and the rim was pounded back into shape enough to be able to complete the ride. I have heard some folks complain about how soft BMW wheels are. Perhaps there is a method to this madness?
The last fourteen miles into the campsite were through National Forest Service lands and the effect of clear cutting timberlands was graphically displayed. However, it did have the unintended side effect of presenting a really terrific view of Susanville and surrounding area from the heights. The campsite, despite the lack of amenities such as showers or food concessions, is definitely one of the nicest ones I've used.
An Epilog: After the meeting, several of us who did not bring food along, rode the 16 miles into Susanville for a pleasant evening meal. The town is quite attractive and the folk friendly. But I chose to return alone, and as we had been warned of the teeming hordes of deer, I rode most carefully. In the moonlight, the clear cut area was highly visible, and as I rode between the remaining trees I was on alert for that bambi with my name on it. With all my attention focused ahead, I kept getting these flashes of light reflecting off of my leathers as though someone was coming up from behind and I kept waiting for them to pass. I finally pulled over only to discover that there was no one back there. Somewhat perturbed, I rode on only to keep getting those bright flashes. It was beginning to get to me that someone was playing games and I was both annoyed and a bit spooked. I sped up but concern about deer dictated that I allow for possible collisions. Then a turn in the road took me directly into the brightest moon I remember. Wouldn't you know, I was being chased by the moon. Breathing a sigh of relief, I made the final few miles back to the campfire and our usual evening entertainment of tire-kicking and lying.

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