Montezuma Magic
Anza Borrego at the end of Montezuma Valley Road
The asphalt is rushing underneath. A big crestless wave of concrete. Moving with a shocking sense of speed and vitality. It seems elaborate and alive and fresh with that early morning dew-on-the-grass kind of confidence.
Yet the route is so inherently dull. Laid out so straight-as-an-arrow that I find myself wondering where the pavement thinks it might actually be going?
For all the movement around me, all the cars and the trucks and the traffic, I don’t actually feel like I’m going anywhere at the moment…
At it’s core, I have to believe that the road knows it has better places to be than this treadmill of traffic… This stillborn conduit of everyday life…
But freeways are freeways…
They move people from Point A to Point B. They’re routes of progression. Routes of advancement. They go forward. Day in and day out… Yet in some ways they never really seem to advance…
Much like my life at the moment…
Tugging in the clutch lever ever so slightly, I knock the bike down the gear and the engine revs its awesomely torquey head off — The turn signals click, the traffic dives towards the right lane, the route of regularity exits… The road begins to get fun…
It’s 1 pm and there’s a loud, vibrant, noisy commotion whirling around me.
Ahhhhh, this feels good…
Days of work have lead me to this… To this singular movement and moment and belief…
And just a few miles later I’m filling up the gas tank, perusing a map, and wondering where in the hell I’m headed…
Just thirty minutes ago, I hit the garage door clicker and asked myself if I even felt like I riding — But today is too perfect, to beautiful, to crystal-clear to let go of…
Moments of potential magic only come around so often in this life….For last year I’m not really sure if I’ve really taken advantage of them… These days I find myself wondering how many days we get in this life and how many we actually embrace?
And then there’s a boom… A boom-shack-a-lacka… The engine wailing…
The uncluttered mass of an engine’s explosion shuttering its excess waste out the block and down through the exhaust, until there’s this unburned shuttered pulse riveting up my spine. A slight kickback. The bike wiggles… And then it’s ready to thrust again…
Like it never happened…
And it feels so damn good… And so damn strange… All of which is so out of character for what it seems my character has been as of late…
Over the past chunk of time, I find myself feeling this odd sense of excitement about the future — Because things have never seemed this good or looked this positive… On all fronts… I have so much to be thankful for and even though I’m not the most religious of folks, so much seems downright blessed right now…
Yet I can’t help finding fault in the greatness — The world is bouncing back from the edge of a near global abyss and in my darkest moments I find myself wondering just how ‘real’ that bounce might be… And what that means for me?
And then I’m also bouncing off the walls…
I feel like a fucking hamster…
Amazingly it was just six days ago when the latest show that I’ve worked on, ‘Man Made: Bugatti Super Car‘, premiered on the National Geographic Channel — And yet if I’m really, really honest with myself (and that means you too dear blog reader) that feels like a thousand miles ago on the journey of life…
As if it never computed. As if it never mattered. As if it never happened…
And I find myself wondering, how is it possible that the thing that kept you awake all those many nights in damn-near daydream stupor suddenly seems, well, darn I say meaningless? How did I move on so quickly?
Have I lost the ability to appreciate the moment?
Have I become too jaded?
Does anything matter anymore?
For all the excitement, for the all success, for the very culmination in the idea that the dream is actually alive and kicking — perhaps more so than ever before — It oddly feels as if it never even happened…
Is all of this an illusion? Is life?
At the moment, I’m left wondering when did it all begin to accelerate this quickly? When did I loose the ability to cherish the very moment I’ve worked so hard for?
I just don’t know…
That’s a different way of saying that I used to bemoan the fact that I didn’t know who I was — But then at some point I found myself — And it felt ‘right’, it felt ‘real’, I was who I wanted to be and it was all moving forward with a certain purpose and drive and vision — And yet now I’ve done, gone, and lost whatever magic that was…
I feel driven and split and confused and conflicted and so out of sorts that I think I need my own engine ‘tuned’…
Every day there are moments which feel familiar, moments which seem real and intrinsic to who I am, moments which give me joy… And yet there are also moments which feel so strange, so different, so out of place, so against the texture of me, that I’m left emotionally bouncing back and forth between who I think I am, who I want to be, who I think I have the ability to become…
What dreams are real and justified and which are jaded illusions, and which are so far-off in never-neverland that they’re just pipedreams…
And maybe most importantly, when did dreams become qualified?
What happened to excess belief and that gnawing, deep-down self-confidence where you know — just know in your gut — that while you don’t exactly know where you are headed, you know where you’ll end up?
Tonight, I’m left wondering if that’s a real attribute or just merely a product of age? Can you only experience that in your teens and twenties? Does the real-world always eventually catch up with you? Do credit cards and car payments start you down a path of no return?
Ultimately does the money matter more than the humanity or the product?
In today’s post-economic-apocalyptic world, how do we measure success?
These days are we all supposed to be Huxtables, and Keatons, and Tanners?
Is the drive the family? The ego? The business of business? The product?… Or is it still the dream?
Ten or twenty minutes later — Maybe an hour, maybe two — I’m flying through Ranchita, California… A speck of a town that’s a dot on a map in a guidebook that nobody buys…
And it is so fucking fantastic…
The road is open, to say the traffic is light is foolish — There isn’t any — And a heartbeat later I have the opportunity to grind one of the great roads in California…
CA S-22… Better know as Montezuma Valley Road…
If there is motorcycle-magic in this world, this is ground-zero…
A flick of the wrist, the pull of a clutch lever, going gear-up, then a gear-down, and more twisting of the wrist… And I’m there… I’m alive.. I’m in fantasyland… This doesn’t feel real and yet I know it is…
Perfect pavement bends in beautiful corners designed to accentuate the majesty of the dessert’s mountainous cliffs… And the road just twists… Back and forth and back and forth… It’s seasickness for asphalt… And the views… The Salton Sea never looked this good (ok, I’m not exactly sure it ever looked good, but maybe that’s a generational thing)… If you’re a gearhead this is paradise… There’s no two-ways about it… The snakey-snarky road surface flicks around with such relentless abandon that it’s hard to believe that there’s something better in this world… Most roads have one 180º corner, this road has dozens… And that’s if you just count the ‘big ones’…
As the heat of the engine builds and the outside temperature conversely drops, I pilot the bike into a succession of endless corners and smirk…
It’s the perfect golf-shot moment… The reason we come back ride after ride… Because every now and then, it can really be this good…
Ortega Release
The Monster on CA-74
Clouds are forming in the distance and my bones are aching for a smoke as I pull off the road. Twisting the key, the bike ceases to breath and for the first time all day I can hear the silence. Because as amazing as it sounds, I’m actually alone — Even though I’m standing on one of the busiest canyon roads in California.
As it turns out it’s been months since I last road the Ortega Highway. The combination of work and life and well, a sever desire to stay away from this particular stretch of asphalt has kept me away. That might sound harsh, but over the past two or three years each and every time I’ve ridden the Ortega I’ve managed to witness such a constant level of moto-chaos that it almost defeated the purpose of riding. It’s hard to relax and get away from it all when you’re constantly fighting it all and wondering when the next bit of crazy is about to enter your life.
Yet today it feels so damn different and I don’t know why.
The road is smooth, and slick, and fast and fluid. The canyon walls seem eager to open up and I’ve spent the last forty minutes smirking to myself. Because this is fun. This is why we ride. And the traffic is perfectly behaved. There’s excess speed in appropriate places but nobody is running three wide in a blind corner. Nobody is making me feel like death is a downshift away.
Looking out at the water, I scan the thousands of suburban homes and I find myself wondering why it is that roads continue to ebb and flow in our psyche? How is that they change and why do they?
Or is it me? Am I the one who’s changed?
I wonder… I truly wonder…
Canyon Cometh
Engines wail. Roads bend. Seasons change. But the dirt, the dirt in the middle of the asphalt, that never seems to go anywhere…
Extending the kickstand, I kill the engine and slide off the saddle. Peer out over the reasonably clear San Fernando Valley. And it slowly crosses my mind that this isn’t just a ride — It’s an anniversary.
Of my very first motorcycle accident.
And I chuckle to myself.
Not because I’m fearless. I’m not. Because I can’t believe its been only a year. And yet I can.
Amazing how fast time flies… And amazing how conflicted one can feel at the same time.
On one hand the low-side that happened that day remains remarkably vivid in my mind. I can see it. I can feel it. I remember the sensations, the dread that crossed me while standing above a downed bike. The sense of mourning when the tow-truck arrived. The relief when the adrenaline subsided and I felt alright.
But I was lucky and I know it.
Without a doubt both how I ride and why I ride changed that day. A touch of gravel redefined my life. As much as I might try to hide it, that collection of small pebbles altered the paradigm through with I view riding on the street. What didn’t seem like it could happen to me, suddenly did. And I think that was a good thing in the end.
Yet on the other hand, today I felt so totally in control of the bike, so able to do what I wished, that the thought of crashing seemed nebulous at best. Matter of fact I don’t even know if it crossed my mind while I was actually riding. I roared through the canyons with pep and perk and zippiness that felt fantastic and probably was illegal. There were no dark clouds hanging here, just bright skies and open roads ahead. The image of disaster was elusive and ineffectual and almost meaningless.
Until I stopped that is… What an odd round trip of a year…
Flashing back a couple of months, I remember perusing some leather jackets in a local cycle shop, when a sales gal popped in out of nowhere, saw my scuffed up jacket, and rather matter of factly said, “Looks like you were due”.
And maybe I was… Maybe that’s just the cost of doing business when you ride. I don’t know.
Canyon Love
Canyon Love: The Top of Saddlepeak
The light is hard and damn near horizontal when the bike crests the canyon. What had been going up suddenly dives down. The machine whirls forward – oblivious to the change in pitch — with such momentum that there’s little time to breath.
Let alone sightsee.
In a fraction of a revolution, the bike leans forward. The suspension pushes rider and chassis on to the front wheel with such force that the handlebars instantaneously feel six inches closer to the ground. And with it my courage. But the engine booms away. Screaming nastily at the low-lying canyon walls. And just like that my wrists feel the effects of their terror.
Yet the canyon cries out.
It wants to be heard and it wants to be seen.
Because it’s empty and awesome and just so blatantly beautiful that it’s hard not to take in its grandeur — Even if it’s only momentary… Because moments like this go by way to fast, even when you’re going slowly.
But that’s life and all you can do is take it in as quickly as you can, process it the best you can, and hope to hold on to it…
Eyes dart from scene to scene as my mental shutter clicks shut. But almost before the images can be processed and saved, the road surface begins to glide its way sideways. Swooping to its right as it descends towards the masses. A return to the real world encased in one all mighty awe-inspiring vista… That goes on forever and ever and ever…
Quickly a lever comes in and the engine flips out.
Gears change. The engine howls. But the clutch plates press on. And the motor gets back at it… Thousands of revolutions at a time… Add a touch of counter-steering and it’s a remarkable recipe for emotional exuberance.
The bike planted so firmly in its line that it feels flawless. The tires gripping the asphalt with such conviction that it seems as if I can do no harm.
The result is a spirited sprint around one hundred and eighty degree of whiplashing greatness… A corner of corners… And a testament to civil engineering.
How and why roads like this exist has always fascinated me, but today it’s even more profound. Because on the other side of this marvelous adventure isn’t a ditch, but a NASA descent. This isn’t bin it and bust, it’s bin it and bungee. Only without the cord.
Hitting the apex, I whip back the throttle and the bike bursts as the harsh sunlight returns. Yet even though it’s hard to see, the engine roars as the combustion transforms into sheer, heart thumping excess and the exhaust notes endlessly echo on and on and on.
Catching the gears, the bike feels so very alive as it flashes down the asphalt. It feels so good. So powerful… The acceleration hitting, in big, gulping mouthfuls of muscle that act as if they’re tearing the road surface apart bit by bit. It hits so damn hard and yet its so damn easy to make happen. And so unlike the 4-valve Ducati engines. Nothing about this machine feels fluid; This is all ugly, nasty, mean torque-tweaked anger coming out to play. Yet the bike feeling so light and nimble, that it’s just inspiring…
This is one of those perfect days… Because the Monster is just a marvelous machine… And because suddenly I have total confidence in it… In a way that I’ve never had before…
Isn’t it amazing what a set of new brakes can do for you?
Monster Mod #4: Brakes that Bite
The Monster's new Brembo Forged Radial Brake Master Cylinder
My, oh, my, how I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole… After nearly nine-months with the Monster it felt like it was time to take care of my biggest issue with the bike – The OEM Brakes…
Repeatedly, when either the old man or I have returned from a ride on the Monster, our most common post-ride talking point has been how poorly the machine seems to stop compared to a full-blown, fully-faired sportbike.
There’s nothing worse then having to do an emergency stop, pulling the front brake lever back and feeling as if there’s nothing happening.
What has been missing is a sense of immediate action and reaction on the lever and in the calipers. That’s what gives me confidence when I ride and the Monster, as it came from the factory, simply didn’t instill that sense of faith. Instead I found myself constantly thinking, ‘this is a different bike, ride slower, be safer, don’t trail-brake, be conscious of the limits’… These are not exactly the most enjoyable or pleasurable thoughts to have while riding…
Of course, I’m not exactly sure my assessment of the Monster’s stock OEM brake system is fair because I’m fairly certain that MotorMilt and I exist in a really warped place when it comes to brakes. After you’ve see the top of the line systems being built, tested and then put through their paces, it’s hard in the back of your head not to acknowledge that whatever the bike shipped with from the factory is not nearly the same or as good as what gets put on fully-blown sportbikes.
The solution was what amounted to an entirely new brake set-up for the bike, starting with a new Brembo Forged Radial Brake Master Cylinder (along with a new Radial Clutch Master Cylinder to match), new brake lines, new brake pads, and the left over Brembo Calipers from the 999 (which were replaced with a set of Brembo monoblock calipers last year). As with previous installs, Alex White and his team at Motorcycle Performance Services on La Brea Ave. in LA got everything up and running with minimal issue. Many props to them.
The result is absolutely awesome – The Monster is quickly becoming my favorite bike. It’s just so damn light and nimble, and now that it has awesome stopping capabilities, it is so much more exciting to ride. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so in control on a motorcycle in my life. It is just a hoot to attack the canyons with!
In the end, the Monster is so much more than just a mechanical object – It’s unquestionably an art form, a clean canvas that you get to mold in any way you see fit. It has a character that eschews traditional sportbike aesthetics yet it also supports them because at its core the Monster is nothing but sport. A full fledged, unadulterated, blast of performance and passion – only you get to uniquely tailor it to your own tastes, adding performance to a platform that rocks…
Smokeless Duc
The S2R Outside of Lake Skinner
The sky is bleeding clouds on a dark, dank day as the engine disengages. One quick kick of the kickstand — and it dies completely.
Then all that’s left is the silence. And the ritual.
Letting the clutch out, I lean the bike over, twist the key and slide off and out of the saddle. Seconds later, I’m un-velcroing the gloves, loosening the helmet and unzipping my jacket.
It’s a combination of connected movements that I’ve now done thousands of times, on a whole mess of different machinery, all over the country and the world, without thinking about and yet today, I’m conscious of each and every step.
The order and the process. The A that gets to the B that takes you to C. And so on.
It’s a well-worn practice – a part of the riding experience that happens each and every ride, even on trackdays, and in a strange way there’s almost a comfort to the rhythm. To the execution.
And yet today there is something missing.
Mentally, I start checking and re-checking that internal to-do list that every rider has when they climb off of their bike during a ride.
Taking a breath, I stare out to the East; through the weeds in the fields, above the rolling hills that almost shimmer in the light breeze, and up and over the not-so-distant mountains, which look decidedly muted under such a dark, black, virtueless sky.
The menacing color palette feels haunting. It looks evil and nasty and so damn turbulent.
Yet the shitty weather on the horizon that’s quickly approaching doesn’t even faze me… Instead, my mind seems stuck on what’s been forgotten.
Swinging my head around, I glance westward, expecting to see something brighter, but it’s just a lighter shade of gloomy.
Looking back at the bike, my hands start to fidget just a bit as a thought crosses my mind and I shutter.
This coming Monday will start my 11th week without a smoke.
Unlike previous attempts to quit, this time around has been surprisingly easy with the exception of a few crazed days.
Expect for right now.
In my book, few things in life pair as well as smokes and sportbikes. They are remarkably complimentary if not opposed activities — The long, slow introspective drag of a smoke perfectly counter-balancing the heart-pounding core-human enthusiasm you feel after a jaunt down a decidedly curvy road that you just conquered. For practically the last decade, the combination of these two elements has been the means by which I’ve experienced life.
But not anymore.
Now, I find myself standing next to the bike, looking out at the foul weather that’s coming my way and thinking, it’s time to get back on the road.
Introspection will have to wait. It’s time to ride.
Rumbles on Rails
Ducati Monster S2R 1000 in Temecula Valley Wine Country
The air is vivid and the clarity stark as I gaze out at a classic reproduction of the quintessential California expanse. Wilted brown hillsides that amble up and down in a series of earthquake-riddled waves that feel like they’ll go on forever. There are no homes. Few roads. And not a single Mini-Mart in sight.
Of course, I’ve ridden enough miles in my life to know that at some point this rollercoaster of a journey will come to its inevitable conclusion and fade away. Die a slow death that hardly anyone but a true rider or driver will notice.
The road surface will once again straight-out and be consumed by track homes and manicured lawns and big, airy shopping centers with plenty of parking. Shopping Centers, which oddly enough seem replicate from one corner to the next in an eerie form of reproduction, where only the names on the outside of the buildings seem to change.
For a second I find myself detesting that magnificent sensibility we call urban sprawl – But then it occurs to me that I use it everyday. I exist in it. I pay for it. I live in it. And I use it far more than I’ve gotten out to ride — So who am I to put it down?
The reality is that the roads that make riding fun are not practical anymore. They’re not the heavy-lifting, heavy-duty infrastructure backbone that helps society advance.
Rather curvy roads are post-modern asphalt artifacts left over from a time when life was simple and secluded.
Today it is not.
Today Small Town America is a stone throw away from the big city thanks to a plethora of communication. We talk more. We email more. We surf the ‘net more. We connect more.
Information is our new currency and like the good ‘ol dollar bill, it binds us in a continual vortex of the ‘now’ and the ‘current’.
But right now, none of that really matters.
As the asphalt undulates, a wildly rumbling Ducati L-Twin time-machine is hustling me up and over yet another crest in the journey of life.
And it’s fracking awesome.
I feel so outside of myself and my life, that I find myself quickly wondering why I don’t do this more?
Why don’t I take that thirty or forty minute ride over lunch? Why don’t I escape for an hour or two, here or there? Why mentally do I always fall on the safety sword and tell myself I’m either to tired, or to unfocused, or to busy to get a quick ride in?
Why do I force myself to live a life of riding that’s blocked out on the mental calendar in permanent marker in dedicated riding chunks and not simple, short adventures, even if they’re just for a coffee or two?
Of course, if I did toss the gear on and take shorter, more frequently escapes, would I respect them as much? Would I get the same release? Would I feel as relaxed afterwards?
I don’t know… But I wonder…
Can riding be both less dedicated and as fulfilling?
