Riders on the Storm

It was a dark and stormy morn. As I streaked across the Dumbarton Bridge toward East Bay the strong south wind tried to blow my bike out from under me. It wasn't raining much yet, but the forecast was for rain all day. It was sure to come. Because of El Niño (I hate that kid!) practically any fool could accurately forecast the weekend weather lately. Surely no one would be at the Sonol restaurant where the tour was scheduled to begin at 9:00 a.m.

Well, color me wrong. I was greeted by the sight of three motorcycles in the parking lot as I arrived at Bobbi Jo's Old Town Cafe 15 minutes before scheduled departure time. Bill Jarvis, Bob Love and Tom Borman were waiting for me as well as their food while an undermanned and overworked staff struggled to serve our small group as well as the many regulars filling the small establishment. As I was ordering an English muffin in walked Daryl Hall to complete our band of five. The Saturday morning meeting of Certified Loonies could now begin.

The rains didn't come right away. We must have gotten all the way to Livermore before the tapping of drops on our helmets and face shields gave way to an insistent and steady drumming; a sound which was to accompany us throughout the day's ride. As we turned onto Mines road everything appeared normal, albeit wet, and there were no clues to prepare us for the conditions through which we'd be traveling very shortly. The turn past the entrance to Del Valle Regional Park marked our passage into a different world as we climbed and snaked through the hills above Arroyo Mocho.

We had the road to ourselves; such as it was! Traffic was nil, so our progress was unimpeded by pickup trucks normally encountered in these parts. The road itself was another story, however. We were forced to maintain a fairly moderate pace, not only because of the rain but due to the presence of all the elements we've been reading and hearing about these past several weeks; mudslides, washouts and flooding to name three. Mud and gravel on the roadway made turns challenging and the occasional missing or sagging lane made simply staying on the road problematical. And let's not forget the several crossings of water where the creek flowed over the road. All but one of the water hazards were innocuous; but the last, over Colorado Creek just a few miles before the junction of San Antonio Valley and Del Puerto Roads, was an obstacle with pucker power.

As we downshifted and braked on our approach certain differences between this and the previous crossings became apparent. "Deeper" was the first impression that registered with me, and I could only guess at the condition of the road under the fast flowing water. I shifted into first gear and slowly guided my K75S into the stream while I tried vainly to read the vague and shadowy shapes ahead of me. Part of the road was missing, and as the bike's front tire marked that reality my short handlebars twisted sharply in my hands. Although the road's rough and uneven surface caused me an anxious moment or two, the rest of the crossing was uncomplicated; and I paused a short distance up the way to regain my composure and observe the rest of the group as they made their way slowly through the water. Each waited until the rider ahead reached safety before beginning his own approach and choosing a path based on what he'd seen his predecessor do.

The Junction was a welcome sight. It seemed we'd been riding much longer than the mere hour which had passed since we launched. We parked in the almost deserted parking lot and scurried to get inside, pausing just long enough to help Bill pick up his F650 which had fallen over when his foot slipped off the wet center stand. As we stood under the front porch roof removing helmets, gloves and such, a departing "local" filled us in on what to expect down Del Puerto Road. Officially the road was closed, she said, but could be ridden if we were careful. She was impressed that we'd come down Mines Road, but commented, "that was nothing compared to Del Puerto." She wished us well and drove away as we filed inside to warm ourselves and ponder what lay ahead.

Bob was already inside, and I caught sight of him wringing prodigious amounts of water from his gloves into the unlit fireplace. The rest of us dribbled water everywhere as we walked about, providing amusement for the two women behind the counter and their lone customer, a grizzled regular from the area. We were happy to be in a warm, dry room; and the trio welcoming us was glad to have some company; so we entertained each other for the next half hour and shared some yucks while we drank coffee. Considering how complicated the simple act of relieving oneself becomes while sporting multiple layers of leather, rubber and Gore-tex, drinking coffee may not have been prudent, eh Daryl?

Once sufficiently warmed we slowly wrestled our gear back on and prepared to get underway. The proprietor presented us with souvenir keychains and admonished us to ride safely as we slogged out the door into the waiting rain. We wasted little time as we quickly mounted our bikes and entered Del Puerto Road where a barricade proclaimed the road closed due to flooding. The tour pressed on.

We saw no floods on Del Puerto. There had been flooding, to be sure, but very little water remained on the road. What we found instead was tons of mud and rock blocking lanes throughout our run down the canyon. The area was absolutely devastated. There seemed barely a bluff that hadn't sent major parts of its structure down onto the roadway. The road was never completely blocked, but any vehicle larger than a golf cart would have found the going tough. We were traveling through an area that won't be cleared, repaired and opened to the public for many weeks if not months. It was a sobering, but fascinating ride. The experience provided some small amount of perspective on what this terrible, wet winter has dealt to many around the state.

Eventually the rutted canyon gave way to the gentle, rolling hills that marked our approach into the Valley. We stopped under the I-5 overpass just west of Patterson where we regrouped and agreed to continue to LaGrange before breaking for lunch. Once we got beyond the protective hill country and rode out into the Valley, we became very aware of the stiff wind conditions. What had been mostly inconvenience now became downright unpleasant as the wind penetrated our clothing and played hell with the wet spots.

And then I got lost in Turlock! "Lord of the Tour Meets His Match in Turlock!" screams the headline in my imaginary tabloid. I swear there was a sign marking a left turn to J17. Really. I'm not making this up. After riding for several miles and becoming more and more certain I had somehow gotten off the path we stumbled across a strip mall, and the Lord accosted passersby in the parking lot to ask directions. It was at this point Daryl walked over and told me he'd been going to the bathroom a lot that day and "really had to go now." I nodded and told him I'd be stopping at the first station.

As we rode out of town on J17 I could sense Daryl somewhere behind me clinching his knees together tightly enough to dent the tank of his RS, but there was nothing around for miles except farms and ranches. We were forced to settle for a ranch road guarded by two grassy berms which would offer some small privacy for the thing that needed doing. Daryl was practically up the road before my kickstand was down; and Bob decided, he too would take advantage of the stop while the rest of us hung out with our bikes a few feet away on the shoulder of the road. There was little traffic about, but mere moments had passed following our boys' departure before two vehicles slowed and turned into the road. Bill, Tom and I laughed so hard we practically made pee pee ourselves.

The dining room at the LaGrange Hotel provided a much needed respite from the elements, and we took our time over lunch. Once our bellies were full and our gear semi-dry we made ready to ride the final tour segment to New Hogan Reservoir, only about an hour away. Bob announced he was cold and wouldn't be completing the journey with us, so we waved to him as we pulled away from the curb while maybe feeling just a little bit envious.

After riding north on LaGrange Road to Hwy. 120 the plan was to proceed west to Knights Ferry and north via Sonora and Milton Roads to Hwy. 26. I turned onto 120 and rode west for about a half mile before noticing the rest of the group wasn't behind me. After pulling to the shoulder and waiting for a couple of minutes I turned around and returned to LaGrange Road where I found the others waiting for me and pointing at their gas tanks. We then turned east and rode a short distance before finding a station at Chinese Camp. While stopped Daryl and I discussed altering our course to O'Byrnes Ferry Road/Hwy. 4/Pool Station Road to Hwy. 26. It seemed like a good plan, but I failed to discuss it with anyone else before departing the station. I turned at O'Byrnes Ferry; and Bill, who was immediately behind me, followed. What I didn't realize was Tom was separated from Bill by a few cars and hadn't seen him turn. Bill and I stopped to wait after the turn, but we never saw Tom go by. I then observed Daryl in my mirror slow at the turn but then continue on 120, but when I went back to check I saw neither rider. We didn't have much time left before the meeting was scheduled to begin; and even though the meeting wasn't going to start without the President, it seemed prudent to continue to the campsite without waiting any longer.

As we later learned Tom stuck to the original route and had a rather deep and dicey solo water adventure on Sonora Road. He also got points for riding the route from memory after the wind tore his well worn Yosemite map in half. Daryl had seen Tom pass O'Byrnes Ferry Road and raced to catch him, but turned back because Tom had too great a lead and was going fast because he was trying to catch Bill and me. Daryl followed the new route we had discussed at the station but was several minutes behind the tour of two.

Bill and I arrived at Acorn Campground about ten minutes late just as the rain stopped. Tom arrived a couple of minutes later and, with hardly a trace of sarcasm in his voice, thanked me for waiting. About the time Tom finished telling us about his experience Daryl appeared at the entrance to the campground, but we wouldn't hear his comments for several more minutes. You see, he parked his bike just inside the gate and went into the restroom located there.

Back to the Norcal Home Page...