An 18,000 km Winter Interlude
It’s been a trademark of our marriage; Bob and I are always up for a challenge. In our pre-children years we toured British Columbia on a brand new purple 1969 Triumph Tiger. I’d wedge myself between gear and Bob, a fit so snug that I’d snooze. When we set up camp, visitors would wander by with cookies and stay to hear our stories. Around those early campfires we found a truth that hasn’t changed; travelling by motorcycle represents a dream of freedom to many people. When friends offered us a chance to sail in the Virgin Islands in February 2009, we looked at each other and said, “Let’s ride.”
Over the years we’ve looked at all sorts of bikes. While Brenda liked the vintage low rider style, I always had a soft spot for BMWs, and our thoughts drifted toward touring bikes like the Gold Wing. One of the challenges of taking early retirement is that while there is a lot of time, there are also ten places to put every dollar. As we looked, we took into account the cost of purchasing, insurance, and operation. We wanted a bike for touring; something we would sit upright on. We looked at some similar size ‘V’ block twins, but even dealers who sold a wide variety of motorcycle makes and models suggested possible performance issues, and pointed us towards the Yamaha FZ6. The big touring bikes had their appeal, but we had to ask ourselves, ‘Did we really want to spend the money or go with a smaller bike that was less costly to buy and more fuel efficient?’ In July of 2008 we contacted Daytona Motor Sports in Vancouver, BC. They had a new 2007 FZ6 on clearance at a price we couldn’t refuse.
Our Canadian spirit of ‘can do’ was challenged by the BC coastal winter weather of December 2008. Bob and I greeted the first snowfall at our Vancouver Island home with a hearty dose of Christmas Spirit, but by New Year’s Day we were ready to see it go. Weather forecasts for warmer weather tantalized us, but kept drifting out of reach. On January 4th, 2009, the Island Highway was almost clear, but the side roads were still locked in ice. We opted for loading the bike on our utility trailer and driving to Seattle. While our daughter took the car and trailer back to Canada, we geared up for the road, wearing warm layers under and over our protective riding gear. Rain stayed with us through Washington, down the Oregon Coast and right through to Crescent City, California.
Years ago we toured without saddlebags, trunks, and tank bags. Brenda is a trooper, but this time we wanted a few more creature comforts. One dealer told us that Yamaha saddlebags were available, but no trunk. We went back to the dealership where we purchased the bike, and sure enough they came up with what we wanted. We went with a three-piece GIVI unit with a mounting frame made for the Yamaha FZ6. A nice thing about the trunk in this unit is that you can get it with two brake lights built-in or retrofitted. They make me feel a bit more visible in traffic.
We didn’t have a trip planned when we purchased the FZ6. Shortly after buying it we took a 2000 km ride through the Cascade mountain range to Idaho. This trip did identify one shortcoming of the bike; Brenda found the pillion seat too lightly padded for long rides. There is a touring seat available from Yamaha, but we were reluctant to spend $300 based on a picture that did not look any better than the standard model. Brenda solved that by making a black leather touring seat that attached with industrial weight Velcro.
Once we started to plan a seriously long road trip, the question of what we were going to take, and the space and weight of what we were going to take came to the fore. The maximum load was 190 kg (419 lbs). Brenda and I donned our leathers and stood on the scales, and then packed and repacked the saddlebags and then weighed them along with the tank bag. I’ll admit; we did not carry a lot of changes of clothes.
We headed south through the redwood forest where mist and fog made the looming giants look even larger. One California biker heard that Bob and I were riding to Florida and muttered. “You gotta really love riding!” Ride safe, be safe; all through the journey we were cushioned in good wishes.
The bike ran flawlessly in all weather conditions. We averaged about 20 km/L, and even on a few tanks got 25 km/L, which is almost 71 miles per gallon (Imp). The FZ6 is a high rpm bike. The red line is 14,000, however we never saw anything close to that. We cruised between 4,000 and 6,000 rpm or 80 and 118 km/h, respectively. The interesting thing is, we got the best mileage in the mountainous terrain with the rpm about 5500, and we were at 7000-foot elevation. On our fourth day on the road the sun came out and Brenda and I found ourselves on one of the four truly great rides of the trip. The California coast on Highway 1 gave us panoramic views of the Pacific with migrating whales in the distance. We took local advice to get off the road before the night fog closed in and rode inland and then along US 101 until the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge led us into San Francisco late at night.
In Half Moon Bay, friends loaned us a house, and suddenly we were in the midst of summer. Bob and I took shore rambles and explored San Francisco on the cable cars while our bike had a servicing. After a few days break it was time to roll again, south along the California coast to Piedras Blancas where the mating elephant seal population has exploded; from two births in 1992 up to 1,700 births in 2008. As we headed inland through central California we left the coastal oak forests. Wind swept constantly over the hills and wind farms use high tech windmills to generate power. In the town of Buttonwillow, oil rigs pump steadily in the surrounding field, but the only gas station was an industrial card lock. Fortunately Bakersfield, with its booming town, hazy air, and gas stations was only 12 miles ahead.
The gas tank on the Yamaha FZ 6 is a consideration for touring. Brenda and I were limited to about 300 km. It would be nice to be able to go further, when gas stations are far apart on back roads. Then again, at least it made for an excuse to stop and stretch. In Topock, Arizona, friends took Brenda out in the desert on sand rails (a sturdy low-slung buggy designed for the sand).
Our next stop was Lake Havasu in Arizona. The lake is man-made and ringed by rugged mountains. I did find it slightly bizarre to find London Bridge so far from its home. Bob and I continued on skirting Phoenix. We saw billboards offering 500 bank-owned houses for sale and closed storefronts became a familiar sight by the end of our journey. In the town of Superior, we found an RV park that let us pitch our tent for $5. Miles of yuccas, all sprouting 10-foot spires of blossoms, replaced the saguaro cactus on the hills. We crossed the rest of Arizona and carried on into New Mexico. At Las Cruces we found an amazing sculpture; a 50-foot roadrunner made from road trash; bits of tire rubber, old running shoes, and hubcaps.
A friend who grew up on a Texas ranch looked at our route through the state and shook his head. “Brenda, I just wouldn’t go that way” he said. We could see his point. It is hard, dry country with not much movement except circling hawks and border patrol cars. We ran through some depressed looking towns before we hit El Paso, Texas, a town illuminated by a massive lone star. An RV park security guard let us pitch our tent between the big rigs for $15. The next day we headed south onto US 90 and the countryside softened, with layers of pink rock highlighted by chalky white seams.
It is pretty hard to find something wrong with the bike mechanically. The only trouble we had on the trip was getting an air filter. No one stocked them, and after trying in several cities we had to order an air filter 10-days ahead of our arrival. The touring windscreen could perhaps be a little higher. When it’s drizzling, or the roads are wet, the driver picks up mist on the visor. Brenda says I have a habit of slouching to the right a bit, and I think she is right. Shortly after I start to slouch I can feel it in my wrist. To remedy this I am looking at adding a one-inch handlebar riser. It might give me a slightly more relaxed seat and not hinder the ride. Even with the bike being a higher rpm machine, vibration was non-existent. Ergonomics on the FZ6 are ideal, as if Yamaha had an ergonomic engineer working on the design team.
Lonesome Dove Campground in Del Rio, where the Rio Grande widens, was one of our best buys. Here, $10 allowed us to pitch our tent, with free coffee and doughnuts, internet, hot showers, newspapers, TV and friendly people. In Brackettville, Texas we tried to find a café to watch President Obama’s inaugural speech. ‘No ma’am,’ a waitress told me, ‘Nobody hereabout will be watching that, maybe at the library.’ The town library set us up with computers and earphones and we were able to listen to the inaugural speech in this history rich corner of Texas.
Our route into San Antonio was a strange mix of dilapidated housing running into a gorgeous downtown core. We skirted San Antonio’s famous river walk, and admired the lovely buildings before heading on our way. In Gonzales, Texas we pitched our tent in the town campsite ($5, no showers). In the horse ring at the other end of the park, riders were practicing barrel racing under stadium lights. It was a chilly night to camp and Bob woke the following morning to find frost on the bike.
After Gonzales, the land became more cultivated. The arid ranches were replaced by dairy farms. We headed east and then south, and at about three in the afternoon we hit the Gulf of Mexico at Surfside. We crossed over the intracoastal canal that goes to Brownsville (it carries more tonnage than the Panama Canal) on a swooping bridge. Our excitement at reaching the gulf was quickly replaced by shock. Bob and I were stunned by the damage from September 2008—Hurricane Ike. The road from Gulf Port to New Orleans gets our votes as a great ride because of its emotional impact. We rode the coast until the highway disintegrated and then we followed the rough track through broken asphalt that took us on and off the sand beach. Every kind of debris was piled in heaps along the road. In Galveston one house had a roof and wall torn off revealing a bedroom, with the bed still made and just one corner of the spread flipped neatly back.
As Brenda and I took the free ferry from Galveston Island to the Bolivar Peninsula, we didn’t realize that Galveston’s Hurricane Ike damage was comparatively light. We rode through the Peninsula surrounded by dead vegetation, heaps of cars piled by the roadside, and empty pilings where homes used to be. We became part of a chain of headlights heading towards the town of Winnie, eight miles inland and only lightly hit by the storm surge. We stayed in Winnie for the night, seemingly we took the last room, a Jacuzzi suite.
We took back roads through rural countryside to New Orleans, Louisiana. In New Orleans, overpasses are everywhere and traffic moves fast. Some parts of the city are beautiful with new construction and fresh paint, but then you hit the Lower Ninth Ward where houses rot and dumpsters still sprout soggy insulation left after Katrina.
Leaving New Orleans we crossed into the Bayou Sauvage. This is beautiful country, with swamps leading to the ocean and shrimp boats standing by. Riding farther east to Biloxi, Mississippi, mountains of white sand has been brought in to rebuild the lovely shoreline. Huge casinos sit on pilings and campground fees for tents run at $30 US a night. Bob and I rode to Fort Gaines on Dauphin Island where we caught the ferry across Mobile Bay. Natural gas derricks stand above the water, operating under strict environmental constraints. Grey skies and surging waves lead us through Pensacola, Florida and the dune cities of Panama City Beach and Panama City. We headed inland through gentle and quiet countryside of pine plantations and skirted south of Tallahassee before we rode on through the manatee haven at Crystal River.
Florida is flat country, and the inland journey was a bit quiet after the drama of mountain, shoreline and desert. Then we found the third great ride of the trip, the Florida Keys. Long bridges link these mangrove bound islands and we rode past names as familiar as Key Largo and as obscure as Big Pine Key where the tiny Key deer are given sanctuary. Key West is the southernmost tip, and is only 80 miles from Cuba. The outlying waters are a maze of reefs and conflicting currents, and until the advent of radar, shipwrecks were commonplace. In the 19-century, salvaging shipwrecks was legal and a major business, making Key West the largest and richest city in Florida. Now at the tip of Key West, we completed our outward part of this motorcycle adventure. We rode 8,500 kilometres through some wild extremes of January weather. As we met with our friend Tom, who winters on the Keys, he looked at us and said. ‘I guess you’ve gone about as far as you can go.’
In Key West, we replaced our rear tire at 13,500 km. We had a slow leak repaired in Topock, Arizona and the tire was showing signs of wear. The shop owner had no problem fitting me in, commenting that his business was painfully slow. When we bought the bike, the dealer insisted that the sport tires would be great on wet roads, but would likely wear faster due to the softness of the rubber. It was true, the tires never once slipped on rain soaked roads. I did my best while on the road to get a better touring tire, something with better wear characteristics. The Continental seems to have a longer life expectancy.
After a week in the Keys we headed to Fort Lauderdale to store our bike at Griffin’s Moving and Storage. $100 gave us inside storage for up to a month. Bob booked us on Spirit Airlines and we flew to St. Thomas in the US Virgin Islands to sail with friends on their catamaran, the Wild Orchid. For 20 days we snorkelled, ate, sailed, motored, explored and snoozed away lazy tropical afternoons. When our time was up, we flew back to Fort Lauderdale to pick up our bike and start to ride again, this time with a quick side trip to Orlando.
As we headed home Brenda and I made plans to work with the Mennonite Disaster Services in New Orleans. In return for a bed and food, and a safe lock-up for the bike, we laid flooring in Ms. Nita’s compact yellow house for a week; working until it was hard to bend. The scope of the work that has been done in New Orleans is staggering, but the scope of work left to do is even more so. As we left New Orleans the weather turned cold and wet.
To vary our route home we headed south into Big Bend National Park, part of the Chihuahua Desert, where Texas dips down into Mexico. We left behind the sagebrush flats and drove steadily south into the mountains This ride is classed as one of the most scenic in the United States; it is a great ride! Just as we entered the park a Bighorn ewe ran into the road with her lamb at her heels. The twin disc brakes made stopping straight and quick, and saved us all from a closer encounter. The desert was blooming as we rode along the Rio Grande as it skirts the Mexico-US border to the town of Presidio, Texas where half the stores seem to be closed. The town’s huge RV park had only a few campers and the puzzled host said usually at this time of year they are at least three quarters full.
In the high country of Arizona we veered north. A warm air front was melting roadside snow making it possible to visit the Grand Canyon, a destination we expected to be snowbound in March. The roads were clear and dry, and mountain meadows were shallow lakes of snowmelt. With crystal skies and brilliant rock colours, the canyon was stunning. Ranger Ron, the ‘condor man’, explained how they track the condors over the canyon. Later we followed Route 66 into Williams with Brenda reading Burma Shave signs along the way. ‘You can drive a mile a minute, but there is no future in it.’ We followed Route 66 and passed through some of the most desolate stretches of road since we left the hurricane damaged Gulf Coast.
We left Palmdale, California and rode into the mountains of the Angeles National Forest. As we climbed, the temperature continued to drop and there was the odd flurry of blowing snow, but it was so cold that nothing stuck to the ground. There were some stunning visual moments that the pillion seat passenger had lots of time to enjoy. We rounded a corner to see a brilliant green valley with a creek curving towards a white farmhouse whose red roof had caved in, pushing the walls out in crazy angles. A few miles farther on there was a house bounded on one side by a chain link fence that held half a dozen carefully articulated animal skeletons.
We made the coast and saw the Pacific Ocean with a sense of homecoming. We’d touched down on the Gulf of Mexico, the Atlantic and the Caribbean, but the Pacific was our ocean. At Piedras Blancas, the elephant seal pups had grown immense since Bob and I saw them in January. We rode the coast on a narrow highway that cut like a winding ribbon into the steep mountain side. We put our heads down and just rode on as the weather chilled in Oregon and Washington.
‘How long were you gone,’ the customs agent at the Canadian border asked us. When Bob told him that we had been riding for three months, all the way to Key West, he leaned out and looked at the FZ6. ‘You rode this? In winter?’ After shaking his head he looked at the bike and said, ‘You don’t expect people to do that kind of trip on this bike….cool!’
Many would call the FZ6 an introductory motorcycle, and for some things it may be. I found it a mid-weight bike with lots of power and great performance for touring two up, in the mountains, and we handled Texas with its speed limits of 80 miles per hour without difficulty.
There is a decadent sense of luxury in coming home and touching all the things that we collect to make our lives comfortable and talking to the people who make our lives rich. But it’s a sure thing, one evening soon Bob and I will look at each other and say, ‘Where next?’
