During our epic auto journey from mid-Michigan to Pasadena, and finally right to the edge of the Pacific Ocean, we'd carried our classic ’71 blue Honda 175 CL Scrambler, weighing about 270 pounds, on the rear of our big ’95 GMC van. If we released the straps, rolled it down the little ramp that came with the hitch ramp, then pressed the electric starter button, we were off. Easy riders, I guess you could say. America is crammed with interesting side roads and little towns: motorcycles make it easier to explore them economically. (The van, with its 30-gallon tank, gulps fuel, but this little Honda micro-sips its 2.68 gallons. Each gallon = 75 + miles. Cool.)
But, for me, there was another important reason to include it. What if a natural (tornado? Yellowstone boom?) or manmade (terrorism?) disaster befell our part of the country? Finding food or medicine- or trying to drive back to Michigan in our van- would likely be impossible. Imagine roads crammed with vehicles.(Remember the New Orleans residents trying to escape Hurricane Katrina? The freeway was a jam-packed mess: cars crawled along at a snail's pace for as far as the eye could see.)
Cars don't handle anything but smooth roads very well. There'd be no way to gas up, either. Not if you can't move. But a motorcycle goes practically anywhere. It can weave around vast lines of gridlocked cars effortlessly, and travel an awfully long distance before needing a drink. One (two-person) motorcycle + two backpacks = freedom. Heck, I could carry Bryn in an improvised sling on my belly if necessary. These days I don't trust the world much. Our bike an emergency bailout. With it we could probably get home again- eventually. I needed that reassurance. Just sayin'...
Now, on our way again from Zion National Park to Arches National Park, about six hours away, "You know, before we get too far, I think another oil change is reasonable." mused Joe. "Let's stop at the next exit- a place called New Harmony, Utah. I'll check other fluids, too."
We pulled in; Jim, the slim, 50-something proprietor, greeted us and offered his services. (As they talked I looked up this town. New Harmony is a small resort community of about two hundred fifty souls whose vehicles had probably been serviced by Jim at some point over the twenty years he'd owned his well-run business. Folks who stopped to purchase little car bits always greeted him and exchanged local news. It was a small, but important sign that he was liked, trusted, and competent.)
Jim moved underneath the chassis to carefully inspect everything. But when he looked closer at the shocks- egad! They were old! We should have replaced them in Saginaw, where we'd had it inspected. (To be fair, we'd neglected to mention our plan to drive to the Pacific Ocean. Had he known, our mechanic there would probably have looked at it differently.) So now, Jim jacked up the van a bit and popped one out. Yep. Those shocks were done.
No wonder we'd felt every bump, lately!
Four new shocks were installed. I worked one before he put it in- worlds better.
But then he noticed the defunct fan clutch. Ahhh.. we'd wondered about that fan, but had forgotten to investigate it further. Groaning, we approved its replacement, too.
Then, as he was finishing that task, he noticed the front left tire's inner wall. Pointed. I crawled under and saw for myself.There was lots of tread left, but also tire wall separation- just a little- but enough to serve as a warning. We'd face the Rockies soon. It would be stupid to skimp, or continue to trust these 8-years out of date, one-ply tires. So, with a sigh, we purchased four excellent two-ply ones, good for 60,000 miles. (And, as long as we had the back wheels off, he and I checked the brake shoes and linings. They were fine.)
During the repair work, the Jim kept admiring our hot little Honda bike. Joe noticed, grinned, and commented on his interest.
"Oh, boy," that's sure a dandy bike. I'd love to add it to my collection." He straightened and took a deep breath. "Would you consider selling it?" Startled, Joe laughed, then looked thoughtful. "Well, I hadn't really thought about it, but---" He pointed out the cool features, especially the electric start. "Touch the button, and presto!" He started it up, it made the proper noises, and we all grinned. After some delicate negotiations the two men agreed on a price- a couple hundred bucks more than we'd paid for it. The delighted mechanic paid us cash, moved it into his big, clean garage, and scribbled out his particulars so I could mail him the title when we got home.
"To be honest," Joe told me later, " I wasn't thrilled about hauling it over the Rockies. Vans aren't famous for their zip- never mind towing power- on prolonged, steep grades."(On the way out west we'd chosen the less mountainous route, through New Mexico, so hauling it hadn't been a problem.)
"By the way, I told Jim it tends to sputter and cough occasionally, but he didn't care. Bike-fixing is his passion, so he was even happier to have an excuse to play with it- to tune it to perfection. It's worked out well for all of us."
I agreed.
We own other motorcycles, much bigger and more powerful, and even one touring bike, so we were fine with this sale. (Joe had presented the little Honda to me: Bother! My boots didn't touch the ground when I straddled it.Oh, well...) Now it had another happy owner, and we had a fistful of cash.
And the van's ride? We floated over everything dippy, or hole-y, or rough. Yes, there was a shocking hole in our budget, but it would have been stupid to grit our teeth and hope for the best. What if the van failed in the middle of nowhere! America has hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of empty miles, far from help. To be stranded in that vast emptiness didn't bear thinking about. (Imagine the cost of towing it somewhere...)
Finally, four long hours later, we hopped back on I-15, then to I-70. Destination: Moab, a pleasant little town we'd stayed in for a week once, just outside of Arches National Park.
This drive blew us away. Totally. Tune in next Sunday to find out why.
