24/06/2009 by Brigid.

Leaving Oatman after breakfast yesterday, Tony’s bike had gone down, leaving him with a broken wrist and a suspected head injury, and leaving the group without its photographer. Given Gary’s accident, this came as quite a shock to all. Up until now, during the fifteen years that the Rally has been running, there had not been a single serious accident to a participant. The odd broken wrist or ankle, but nothing life-threatening. Now, suddenly, this year, we have had two. The fact that these things happened to two experienced riders affected everyone in some way.

The ride into Santa Monica was as smooth as I can remember it, despite the morning LA traffic, and we all managed, eventually, to park on Ocean Avenue, close to the Pier. Without Pat’s wife to organise the al fresco buffet on the sea front, breakfast now takes place in an Italian restaurant across the road, with pictures taken at the Pier afterwards. It was a good spread of toasted ciabatta, muffins, fruit and muesli, and the prize-giving was fun, as always, but – if anyone wanted my honest opinion – I prefer the outdoor option. There was something much more relaxed about the donut and coffee buffet, and the long-suffering organisers were always on hand to snap the same group photo on dozens of cameras.  Everyone had a chance to exchange contact details and recount their favourite memories of the week and the whole thing was appropriately unhurried, after a week of early starts.

In any event, John and I always want something a bit more substantial for breakfast, so as soon as everyone had dispersed, we made our way to the Broadway Deli for bacon and eggs with Doug and Joanne. By about 9.30am, we were on the road again. Bound for Canada and Alaska.

Highway 33 is breathtaking. 40 miles of spectacular twisties that belong to bikers - come up behind a car, and the drivers will, almost without exception, move over as soon as they are able. Beyond the mountains, the road passes through the oil fields, a strangely surreal landscape: barren desert littered with countless electricity pylons and rusting nodding donkeys. Then come the fruit farms: millions of trees in perfectly geometric rows, each with their own irrigation system. And, all the while, the westerly wind pummels the bikes and whips up the dust from the reclaimed farm land. In a hundred miles, it seemed we had passed through several different continents.

We spent the night at King City.

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24/06/2009 by Brigid.

Today, John had his bike booked in for service at Doug Douglas Triumph in San Bernardino. So, unusually for us, we were up before dawn and on the road half an hour before the rest of the group. We had to try and get the bike there by 2pm. Earlier, if possible.

It was very liberating, riding the Golden Highway to Oatman all alone. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the pink light of the early morning sun perfectly complimented the desert landscape. The road was ours. The only traffic to watch for were the occasional startled rabbits.

Actually, that isn’t quite true. We did come across Tony and the New Zealanders, Brian and Barbara, who had taken some time out to do some target practice in the wilderness. But they would wait for the rest of the group to join them for breakfast in the Oatman Hotel, so we just exchanged greetings and rode on.

Despite our early departure, we more or less followed the itinerary: stopping, briefly, at Roy’s Café in Amboy; the Bagdad Café at Newbury Springs, and Peggy Sue’s Diner in Daggett. We made good time and, though we were unlikely to be able to get to the dealer before 2pm, we wouldn’t be late.

Knowing the technician would have to remove the fuel tank, John did not want to arrive with any more than a bare minimum. Mme Garmin said that we had 78 miles to go. John’s fuel gauge showed that he had 91 miles worth of fuel …

However, at 1.50pm, with just four miles to go, the Triumph wheezed to a halt on the southbound exit ramp of I-210. Ha!

We remedied the problem fairly quickly. I simply went to the nearest gas station I could find and bought a plastic jerry can and 2 gallons of fuel. It took me a while to rearrange my luggage to find two bungies to strap the can on with, but I was back with John within 30 minutes or so, and 15 minutes later the bike was being wheeled into Doug Douglas’ workshop.

Doug and Joanne arrived a few minutes later to keep us company. A generous gesture, for which we were grateful, especially as nobody could seriously want to sit around a stuffy bike showroom for hours on end. Even the technician apparently decided he couldn’t be bothered to hang around on a hot Friday afternoon to complete the scheduled service. They were nice enough about it, the staff. Friendly and hospitable. But, nevertheless, I was annoyed. OK, so we were a little late but, to me, it had the whiff of yet another typical customer service let-down from a US Triumph dealer. Luckily, John is more tolerant than I am and, besides, he was distracted by the arrival of a brand new 1600 Thunderbird, one of the first in the US, on a trailer outside the showroom.

We got into the Quality Inn in Ontario at around 7pm. Oddly enough, John had mislaid our new jerry can. Disposal of evidence, if you ask me …

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