As we were getting ready to leave San Francisco, Tom discovered a nail in the rear tire of his Triumph Sprint ST. Amid mounting panic, he called the nearest Triumph dealer and, miraculously for a sunny and warm Saturday, they told him to take it right in. Which he did. After we spent an hour spent drooling over various Triumphs and Ducatis and even a stray emerald-green Benelli, the Triumph was newly shod -- front and rear -- and we were off.
By this time it was almost 12:30, so we had to make good time to the Valley and beyond. The hot weather in San Francisco presaged even worse conditions further on, and so it proved to be. We got to Modesto around 2pm and stopped for snacks and water. While we were there, we were panhandled. Twice. So much for Modesto, which might want to rethink its slogan, emblazoned on every city-owned sign and at least one big arch thingie over a street: "WATER WEALTH CONTENTMENT HEALTH."
The original plan was to follow 132 to La Grange, then turn right (south) and work our way over to the southern end of the Little Dragon on Highway 49. But because of our late start, we made straight for Coulterville. After a very enjoyable lunch among a rather raucous tavern crowd, we rode the last entertaining bit of Highway 49 north, and then -- after I made a premature gas stop at Chinese Camp and paid $3.19 for a gallon of regular -- proceeded through Jamestown and onto 108 at last.
Everywhere we went, there were vast herds of Harleys®©™, almost all of them ridden by portly middle-aged men identically clad in yarmulke helmets, black leather vests, jeans, and fingerless gloves. And bad sunburns.
Eventually we left the sweltering heat of the Sierra foothills behind, and climbed into the woods. At Dardanelle we stopped for water at a just-sold and not-quite-reopened resort.
After Dardanelle, the road quickly climbs, past lovely Kennedy Meadows and into vast, boulder-strewn snow fields. And finally, Sonora Pass, at 9614 feet (2930m).
While we were enjoying the view, another motorcycle pulled up, and the rider explained about the "cheeseburger birds" we were hearing -- according to Calfire crews, their song sounds rather like the word "cheeseburger," as uttered by a bird.
After the summit, the road -- of course -- descends, and quite abruptly too. Here, the curves are tighter and more numerous than on the west side. There were also a few patches of brand-new asphalt -- nice to ride on, but there was still plenty of grit left over from the roadwork. Still, a good time was had by us both. But it was getting late, so there was little time to stop and enjoy the vast panoramas of sagebrush country that opened up before us.
Our next stop was in Bridgeport, right after the sun dipped below the mountains. Here, too, we found to our chagrin that gas was $3.29 a gallon.
Now it was just a matter of riding about 50 miles of Highway 395 down to June Lake. We got there shortly after sunset. Despite the heat of the day, after dark the temperature plummeted, and we got unpleasantly cold. We checked into a rustic but comfortable cabin suite at the June Lake Villager inn, and quickly went out for an unmemorable steak dinner.
Sunday morning dawned warm and sunny in June Lake, which -- as the name implies -- is a lake, surrounded by towering peaks. The 7700-foot (2350m) elevation made it slightly difficult to sleep, but the views made it almost worth it. Here's the view from our cabin.
We had sort of planned to get an early start, to avoid the worst of the Valley heat -- a predicted 104F (40C) -- but we didn't manage to get going until 9:15 or so. First a backtrack up 395 back to the junction with 108, and then further north, through Walker and Coleville, almost to the Nevada line, where we turned left onto 89 and left the annoying 395 traffic behind. Monitor Pass is a fun ride, but on this day the tar snakes on the southern side seemed extra-slippery, so we took it slow.
Near the top of Monitor Pass, you get an amazing view of mountains and valleys halfway into Nevada -- or so it seems.
My V-Strom was impatient to ride some more.
It's an ideal place for Tom to model the latest in anti-automotive fashion.
Mmmmm, dead bugs. And this was just over halfway through the trip.
Then a quick jaunt to the top of the pass -- lots of cyclists here, and all along today's ride in the mountains, then a fun sweeping ride down into the Walker River valley. And then left on Highway 4 and back up into the snow zone -- Ebbetts Pass. This is a tremendous road -- nonstop twists, turns, swoops, for what seems like 100 miles but in reality is only 25 or so. The lakes near the summit were all frozen; I tried to find a good place to stop, but couldn't. So we swept pass the summit sign and back down the west side to Lake Alpine.
And that was pretty much it, as far as scenery was concerned. From this point on, it was a gradual descent into hell. Or at least the San Joaquin Valley, which is hardly different. The first stretch of Highway 4 down to Angels Camp (with a slight detour via Murphys Grade) wasn't too bad, but by the time we got to Angels Camp it was seriously hot, and of course we were both in full leathers (my usual riding gear, a 13-year-old Aerostich Roadcrafter suit, was unusable due to a broken zipper). We stopped at Burger King to cool off and rehydrate. Here, too, I got a big cup full of ice water, and doused both of our shirts in it. Which kept us fairly cool, at least for the first few miles.
The other problem in Angels Camp, besides the heat, was the overbearing LEO presence in town. Either Angels Camp is exceptionally safe, or it's exceptionally dangerous and needs a lot of cops. We may never know.
Reluctantly, we donned our leathers and tackled the last bit of Highway 4. It was about 3 pm -- the hottest part of the day -- and we were heading directly into the sun. And it was hot. Searingly hot. Point a hair dryer about 6 inches from your face, turn it to the highest setting, and switch it on. And hold it there for about 40 minutes. That's what it was like.
In retrospect it doesn't seem that bad, but at the time it was miserable. We made good time to Farmington, where we entertained a big crowd of Harley©-Davidson®™ riders by... by being properly dressed for motorcycling, apparently. With loud guffaws at our appearance, they wobbled off. And a tiny part of me, and I suspect Tom too, wanted to see them wobble right into each other and collapse into a big chrome-covered heap, but maybe that was just the incipient heatstroke talking.
We repeated the Hot Weather Routine: guzzle water, fill Camelbak, douse shirts, and set off for Manteca. This wasn't a bad bit, and it was over quickly. One more gas stop and HWR and we hit the freeway. There's nothing like the promise of a cold beer to impel me to great feats of motorcycle endurance, so we made a beeline for our favorite tavern in San Francisco and arrived there about 80 minutes later. The trip was unmemorable, except for the right of a fat shirtless man riding a Harley™-Davidson©® with big ape-hangers, right next to his "old lady" riding a similar rig, but with a bikini top on, at least. I don't know how far west they rode on 580, but if they got as far as Oakland, they'd have been in for a surprise -- for that's just where the blessed sea breeze kicked in, and the temperature plummeted into the mid-70s. By the time we got to The City it was just 70 degrees (21C). Aah, natural air-conditioning!
Total mileage for the weekend was about 620 (1000km).