Coast To Coast

COAST TO COAST

UPFRONT

Allan Girdler

Omens usually affect me. I have a secret cache of quirks and superstitions, ranging from not shaving on race morning to never saying rude things about an engine when it can hear you. In general I follow my interpretations of the tea leaves.

But not always. When I had shipped my rain gear to Florida in preparation to riding home from Daytona, and then it rained on the morning I rode to the airport, I simply grabbed a spare suit from the closet and soldiered on. When I picked up my rain gear on the morning of my return, in the midst of still another downpour, and learned that somehow my raincloves had been left in the open to fill themselves—waterproof, just as promised —from the inside out, I told myself this meant only that I’d rely on the wetsuit principle, i.e. body heat would warm the water next to the skin and ward off cold from the outside. Bah humbug, I muttered to myself, these are not omens. This ta a first, an occasion. I’m going to ride coast to coast, Florida to California and it will be a wonderful trip.

And so it was, despite the omens and the odds.

Odds? Yeah, well, how it began was that we were first in line to test Harley’s 25th Anniversary edition of the Sportster, full test next month and don’t miss it. The factory shipped us a bike while scheduling the official introduction for the opening of their Daytona show. Eager as always for a good excuse, we reckoned Steve could ride the bike to Daytona, thus attending the party on the guest of honor, and I could ride it back.

> A loosely wrapped idea, in other words. Call it 9.8 on the voltmeter. If HarleyDavidson intended the Sportster to be used as a touring bike, they would have named it the Touringster. Further, the Silver Anniversary Special comes with skimpy seat and tiny tank, a meager 2 gal. job.

Because we are True Believers and sticklers for detail, there would be no back-up vehicles or chase trucks.

The only concessions to real life were wiring for a Widder electric vest and chaps, and the installation of a police style windshield Harley rep Jack Malone scrounged from his storeroom. (It was intended for an old Sportster but bolted right on, bless H-D’s interchangeability policy.)

But the trip will be part of the test. For here and now, some lessons learned and relearned, courtesy of one of the world’s great slow learners: Once again I put my helmet on the seat and once again it fell off.

In the valuable experience dept., the wonders of being able to pack right. Not packing right, that’s a subject for a genuine article. Instead, my riding is usually of the overnight variety, in which I stuff a change of clothes, shaving kit and rainsuit into a duffle bag, bungee the bag across the back of the seat, and go. On previous long trips I’ve used a machine set up for long trips, with top box, tank bag and side boxes or bags. Good to have, I thought in a casual way.

Wrong. Wonderful to have. One cannot appreciate the joy of carrying clothes and kit in the top box, maps and supplies in the tank bag, bad weather gear in the left bag and tools, lube, tire stuff in the right bag until one has one small duffle plus electric suit, Totes, gloves, a bundle of wrenches— when will Harley invent the tool kit?— wrapped in old inner tubes, all to go somehow on the back of the bike. What I did first was use a clothing bag, waterproof and zippered, as a sack for the rain and cold gear, the tools and the spray can of chain lube. Right. The tool roll banged into the chain lube, the cap came off and the tools and Totes and inside of the bag were, well, thoroughly lubed. Try wiping that off with towels filched from the rack at the gas station.

Next, the ability of the human mind to let the body suffer. In the rain, duffle and all else got crammed into the clothes bag and lashed on the fender in one great lumpy package. This meant that any time I needed an item I had to unlash the whole rig, spread it out on the gas station apron or curb or road shoulder and paw through the jumble for whatever I wanted. Instead, somehow, it was easier running with a dry chain or wei hands, so I did. Sounds foolish now but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

That’s the downside.

For the ups, our I nterstate. Yeah, I know it’s dull and there are no curves, but I’m thinking here of what our highway system is for, namely letting people go where they want, safe and convenient. In terms of the greatest good for the greatest number, the Interstate has to be the world’s all time best public works project. Why we are letting it crumble, as if we’re ashamed of something that benefits the people, while we fret over the pyramids, I leave to thinkers more profound than I. For me, having the Interstate for the rest of the trip allowed me to tour Texas’ Big Thicket. Never heard of it? Look it up. And when you go, search out the hamlet of Honey Island, find the Armadillo Club and ask for the chili.

For another big Up, the people. Leaving Daytona Beach on the Sunday after thi big week and the big race, there’s no shortage of other bikers, all coming from the same place as the zen guys said about the same thing in another way.

I never heard one discouraging word. (See previous chapters on subject) The 2gal. tank gave lots of opportunity for sto|fc ping at gas stations. There were strings of high speed riders and clusters of tourists. We swapped stories and tips and invitations without regard for brand or size or even if we’d been to Daytona for the races, the bikes or the parties. My faith was restored. ^

I even got a present. The Texas tourist office gives away maps of that fine state. While at the office I linked up with a man from Iowa, just out of the navy, riding a Wide Glide and looking at the country before taking up gainful employment.

He’d also heard of the Big Thicket so we rode together, up to the ranger static^ where the lady ranger expressed relief we weren’t real bikers after all, thunderous Harleys not withstanding. We didn’t know what to say, I mean we sort of thought we were real bikers and the evildoers as seen on television are the fakes. Nice lady, though.

They all were. You can these days walk into a motel or restaurant in soggy suit or grimy jersey (Did I mention I forgot to pack a spare shirt and wore my souvenir jersey for five days? Phew!) and they don’t mind.

Even the unconverted were fun. At one gas station a lady in a boat-towing convoy asked if I’d been bothered by the heail winds all day. No, I said, I have that nifty windshield. Was I cold? Not at all, I said, because I have an electric suit.

There were two small kids in the car. Taking a leaf from Peter Egan’s memoirs,

I leaned in the window and told the oldest “Don’t ever buy an Indian. Buy a Harle>£

I had gone too far. “No son of mine,'”! mom pronounced, “will ever have a motorcycle.”

I retreated in some confusion. But the next day l was rerummaging my luggage when a gray-haired lady commented on what a nice day it was to be riding a motor-1 cycle. Yes ma’am, I said,and she added that her son has a bike and enjoys it. So I told her about the previous mother. Oh well, she said, when my son was that age I would have felt the same way. But when they grow up, what can you do?

I hadn’t thought of that. Kid, I take it back. When you grow up, if you wantij Indian, buy an Indian.

And then ride it coast to coast.