Thanks to Bob Love for organizing and leading a great tour: the roads were interesting and diverse, the countryside beautiful. Just keeping such an independent bunch on such differing machines all headed in the same direction (more or less) for 7 straight hours is no mean feat. That he succeeded by and large is hardly credible. Now, on to the really serious business of My Tour Report.
On Saturday, 29 March, at exactly 7:00 A.M., my S.O., the Lovely and Voluptuous Janet Marble, Ace Accountant and Main Squeeze, and I left home two-up for the dubious pleasure of slabbing it to Livermore. Our purpose was to join the NorCal BMW Club Tour to the River Ranch Campground near Tuolomne City in the Sierra foothills North of Yosemite. The rendezvous was at Emil Villa's Restaurant. The Usual Suspects were the aforementioned Janet, myself, Bob Love, and Damun Gracenin, Jonathan Jefferies, Cathy Purchis-Jefferies, Carol Feldman, John Caramagno, Max Jacobson, Don Allison, John Mulvihill, and Rich Alves. Ten bikes, person-ed by 12 hardy souls who sat and dourly ate gruel waiting for the Tour Commandant to order us to drop our spoons and mount. He did. We did, and set out South from Livermore, while back in the parking lot the Emil Villa String Orchestra plus Sousaphone, (conducted by Yanni, of course,) played "Colonel Bogey's March" from "The Bridge Over the River Kwai." (I know this because some of us fell down before we got out of the parking lot, so we got to hear a lot of the music while we picked ourselves up and spit and adjusted our parts and stuff like that.)
So, five minutes South of Livermore through the Diablo Mountains: BOOM! Instant countryside: cows and green grass and the Clampetts staring at us zooming by. Fresh air and sun and the wonderful sight of a line of Beemers (and one Kawasaki?! Where the hell did that thing come from?), going through a curve, one after another, approaching up-right, then leaning smoothly into the turn, riding colors of red and yellow and white and grey and silver showing against the greens and browns of the hills and the dark ribbon of the road. And this went on all day. In addition, being two-up with The Lovely and Voluptuous Janet Marble, I was often distracted by her obvious propinquity. Nonetheless, I managed not only to stay on the road, but more importantly, not scare either of us even once during the day, (although someone-s else did, but that comes later. And I will manage to get myself lost before this day is over but that comes later too.)
We exit the Diablos via the Frank Raines Regional Park. Now comes the big question: when you cross the Sacramento Valley, how do you make it interesting? Apparently, the secret is to not go in a straight line for more than 5 minutes, and to stop at every stop sign put up since 1948. For excitement, some of us dangle our feet dangerously close to the road. By the time we realize the strategy of our crafty tour captain, the Dreaded Valley is receding behind us, we are climbing into the Sierra Foothills and stopping for lunch at the La Grange Saloon and Grill, in, of all places, La Grange.
We had a private dining room off the bar. The Harley riders had the bar. We shared the bathroom with them, though. The food was heavy heavy heavy. I ate a mere tuna fish sandwich but I could tell how heavy the food was cuz everyone moved very slowly afterwards and at the gas stop immediately after lunch nobody could make up their mind and everybody started snapping at one another and arguing over who got to use which pump and how much to pay and who owed who how many cents and how many angels could dance on the head of a pin and stuff like that. Sluggishly, we got back on the road and prepared to go through the Sierra foothills, skirting Yosemite to our East. It was obvious to me that "Cohesion Had Been Lost" (or at least seriously damaged.) At one turn I looked up to see the line of riders minus 2 or so curving off to our left on the road ahead, while off to my right Damun was GS-ing up a dirt trail across a field watched by cows: Ferdinand the Bull off to smell he flowers, his bovine brethren wondering: "What the hell is that thing?"
As you might guess, after lunch and 7 hours on the road, the "tour" in "The Tour" was becoming extremely attractive and so we (me and Damun and the Lovely and Voluptuous Janet) had to stop in Coulterville to pee and see an antique store called Sherlock's and watch Damun choose a gold-panning pan (an excruciating process I assure you.) Leaving him to it, we stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and suddenly were surrounded by a group of outlaw Harley riders, hulking huge and bared-armed around us. Their biker molls were with them: also bare-armed in black leather vests and pants (The women were even bigger than the men, really.) They asked us in menacing tones: "Are you with that buncha beemer bikes just went through here?" and when we squeaked yes, they swelled up like horn-ed toads on steroids and loomed and lurked and menaced even more than before if that is possible and then I squeaked "but I have a Sportster on order." And they all smiled and relaxed and slapped me on the shoulder and ogled my mama's tits and we all guffawed and spit and adjusted our most personal private and sincere parts and had a great time right there on the Group W sidewalk of Coulterville, California. Finally, we tore ourselves away, (actually we tiptoed to our bike while the Harley-ites and -Ettes argued the relative merits of axle grease versus lard as styling gel) and as we were about to drive off the Harley guys and gals realized we were leaving and surrounded us again but real friendly this time and told us that they really liked us a bunch and "Butch" their really menacing leader reached into the inside of his grease-stained vest and gave us his personal signed copy of Vincent Price's recipe for Beef Stroganoff. "You're okay, kid," he growls softly, embracing me. I smell Brut. Then he plants a big wet kiss on my lips, tongue and all. We drive away slowly (it's all I can manage), the Harley-ites and -Ettes stand in the street waving, the Lovely and Voluptuous Janet waving cheerfully back over her shoulder. After we got out of sight around the first curve I stopped to wipe my lips and change my underwear. Not Clear On The Concept Grand Prize goes to the Lovely and Voluptuous One for chirping "My, weren't they nice folks." When I chide her for her lack of perception, she blithely tells me "I have always relied on the kindness of strangers." I am non-plussed, which was her intent, so we silently ride on in search of Truth, Justice, The American Way and... The Tour. (Remember The Tour?)
We never saw the tour group again. I got lost. Frankly and to tell you the truth, I was so unnerved by the encounter with the Harley-ites and the Harley-ettes (they were huge, really), and driving so fast to catch up, and so dizzy from all the motorcycle stuff and from the constant amorous reminders of the presence of the Lovely and Voluptuous One, that I missed a left turn and the next thing I knew, the road that should have been appearing on my right .9 miles down 120 wasn't. I kept going for a while and then said hawonka screwit and pulled over with a plan to check my map and find a straight line to Tuolomne City and the campground and toheckwithit when who should pull up but Ferdinand Damun his own bad self to say "I've been looking for you. I think maybe you are lost or maybe you aren't because here you are. Follow me." So we did and it was a good deal because he lead us back onto the tour route right at Old Priests' Grade and I wouldn't have wanted to miss that for any number of signed recipes. They just don't make roads like that anymore: a straight down zig-zag 40-cases-of-dynamite 19th Century mountain wagon road. I didn't look anywhere but straight ahead the whole time, but Lovely and Voluptuous assures me that "it was groovy." So then we went North and East on a bunch more groovy roads through beautiful fields and flowered dells and then we went through not-so-lovely-but-sincere Tuolomne City (don't blink) and then into River Ranch Campground and all the tour riders and other folks were there and just about to start the meeting and The Lovely and Voluptuous One waved at them and said "How sweet! They waited for us!" I become uxorious, and like Sergeant Schultz say nothing, and then lick my lips and taste... beef stroganoff. The End of my totally factual and true Tour Report. Really.
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