A Ride to Remember

 

            Many rides are remembered for many years and for many reasons.  Some are remembered for the beauty of the area traveled.  Some are remembered for the friends met or visited along the way.  Still others are remembered for the hardships or troubles encountered.  This is a story about a ride that I remember for all of the above reasons, and more.

            It started off innocently enough.  My girl friend, Donna, and I, left my house in a Los Angeles suburb a little before six on a Friday morning.  It would be Donna's first long distance ride, and my first long ride on my then new Moto Guzzie T-3.  We headed down the San Diego freeway and exited onto Ortega Highway, then worked our way down to Julian.

            The first memorable event of the ride occurred as we headed east across the Anza Borrego Desert, a perfectly straight stretch of Highway 78 that runs between mountain ranges.  As I came down from the west side, I noticed a flashing red light up ahead and slowed from a rather high rate of speed to a "respectable" 65 or so, (the limit was 55).  The lights turned out to be a CHP cruiser parked on the opposite side of the road. The officer was out giving a "please come to our courthouse" invitation to a motorist.  I slowed a little more, passed him, then began to pick up speed when I was out of visual range.

            A few minutes later I was shocked to see the red lights in my mirrors.  I pulled over and received the same "invitation" from the officer.  He said something about me "going awfully fast" as I passed him.  Then he loaded on the crap in the form of a lecture, stating that he owned a Goldwing and "...never rides over 55, even out here."  Yeah right.  I said thanks and pulled away.  I wondered, as I always do, why the heck I say "thanks".  Hell, he just lectured me in front of my new girl friend, gave me a ticket, and then made me resist the urge to puke during his "I don't break the law, why should you?" speech, and I thanked him!

            From there we rode to Indio, then to Barstow and on to Baker.  Our destination for the night was Death Valley.  I knew from previous experience that the inn at Furnace Creek stopped serving dinner at eight.  It was going to be close.

            I stopped in Shosone for gas.  In an effort to get to the valley as quickly as possible I only put a few dollars worth of gas in the tank and we took off.  All of our rushing was to no avail, we arrived at the inn too late for dinner.  We had no choice but to go into the bar and eat some peanuts and pretzels while having a couple of drinks.  While in the bar I heard a great deal of laughter coming from a group in the back.  Some of the voices sounded familiar, so I walked over to investigate.  Sure enough, it was a group of fellow Guzzi riders from Fresno. They were on a weekend ride to "The Valley".  We joined their party and had a great time.

            One of the group, Bruce, asked where we were staying.  I told him we just planned on throwing our sleeping bags down in the campground across the street.  He said he wouldn't hear of it and gave me a key to his room, saying "Our room is right on the golf course.  Pitch your tent on the course outside the room.  If anyone hassles you, just say you were in the room and got claustrophobic so you came out on the course.  Show 'em the key.  Heck, what can they do?"  Well, at this point it was a little after midnight and, with the help of several rum & cokes and  lack of food, it sounded like a pretty good idea to me.

            We did as he said and pitched our tent on the nice, smooth grass, about 30 yards from the room.  I awoke before daylight to the noise of some kind of motorized vehicle.  I looked out of the tent and saw a guy on a lawnmower disappearing over a small hill.  No big deal, I thought, he didn't say anything to us, so I went back to sleep.  A little while later I heard another machine.  This time I looked out to see another guy in a golf cart approaching our tent.  I watched, expecting him to drive up and say something to me.  Instead I was surprised to see him stop and put a flag in a hole, not 50 feet from our tent!  I shook Donna awake and said something like "We gotta get outta here, the balls are going to be flying soon!"

            After a great breakfast with my friends from Fresno, recounting the night's events and thanking them for their "hospitality", we rode off, headed for Tonopah.  I had forgotten that I hadn't completely filled the tank the evening before.  That is, until the bike started to sputter as only an out-of-gas Guzzi can.  We were at the junction of Route 267 and Nevada 95.  The signs said it was 23 miles south to Beatty or 24 miles North to Goldfield.  I had never had this bike on reserve for any period of time and had no idea how far we could go.  We were headed North anyway, and since the difference in the two distances was minimal, we turned toward Goldfield.

            As luck would have it, there were signs of civilization in the distance as the bike began to sputter again.  (Some might argue that it wasn't civilization, after all).  I rocked the bike back and forth, trying to slosh all of the available gas into the fuel lines.  As the Guzzi sipped the last drop  from the tank, we coasted into the driveway of the Cottontail Ranch.

            Upon coming came to a stop I asked Donna if she knew where we were.  She merrily replied "Yes, we're at the Cottontail Ranch".  She sounded proud that she had been paying attention and happy that we managed to make it "somewhere" before being forced to stop.  I asked if she knew what they did at the ranch.   "Well, I suppose they raise rabbits" she replied.  I suppressed a fit of laughter and informed her of the truth.  "No dear” I said in that particular tone of voice that indicated I was hiding something, "this is a cat house".  Her eyes got real big as her mouth dropped open in a gasp.  She asked how I could bring her to a place like this.  I tried to remind her that we really had no choice in the matter, that we were really fortunate to have made it here, but she wasn't listening.  She had gone into some kind of conscious shock and just stared at the sign above the door.

            I knocked on the door, expecting to ask whomever answered if they had any gasoline here.  When the door opened I didn't have a chance to say anything.  A woman in her forties or fifties (it was hard to tell through the make-up) opened the door and, without a word, grabbed me by my jacket and pulled me inside, slamming the door in the process.  She was very pleasant,  insisting I take my jacket and riding pants off an make myself comfortable.  I told her there was a misunderstanding, that I wasn't there as a customer, but that I just needed some gas for my bike.  She said she didn't have any, but that the Shell station in Goldfield would bring some down to me.  “Go outside and call him on the pay phone” she said, “ then come back in and visit with one of the girls while you wait.”  I politely told her that I didn't think my girl friend would appreciate that too much, but thanked her anyway.  She said to "Bring her on in too, she can have a drink at the bar while you're busy".  I told her thanks again and stepped back outside.

            I called the station in Goldfield and was told "...yeah, we can bring you some gas, but it'll cost fifty bucks for three gallons, with delivery charges and all."  I decided there had to be a better way.

            I took Donna and, together, we walked around the back of the building.  She asked what I was looking for.  I told her I'd know it when I saw it and left it at that.  After walking almost completely around the fenced enclosure I saw it, or rather, them; an empty paint bucket and a coiled up, rotting, garden hose.

            I pulled the chain link up from the bottom enough for Donna to slip underneath.  She went under and pulled the paint can and the end of the hose out.  I cut a few feet off of the end of the hose with my pocket knife and we went to the front of the house where there were two cars parked.  One was off to the side a little, so I tried it first.  The hose hit the bottom of the gas tank with a thud.  I pulled it back out only to find the end covered with mud and rust.  Oh well, on to the other car.  It was directly in front of the windows, so I got down and slid on my belly up to the car.  I reached up and opened the door covering the gas cap and tried to open the cap.  "Damn" I said out loud, "it's got a locking gas cap!"

            I think Donna and I were both relieved that we couldn't  steal any gas, even though we had already, technically, broken into a whore house and stole an empty can and a few feet of rotten garden hose!

            We pushed the Guzzi out onto the highway.  After what seemed like hours we managed to get a couple in a car to stop.  It was a Datsun “Z” car.  You know, the kind with the gas tank about six inches off of the ground.  It took me several tries to get the siphon working but the couple didn't seem to mind the delay at all.  They leaned against the car "necking" the whole time.  Donna and I later surmised they were either on their honeymoon or were having an affair.  Whatever, it didn't matter to us, they were nice enough to let us have some gas and refused to accept any payment when we were done.  They drove off towards Goldfield, waving as they went.

            We drove on into Goldfield and got gas, then up to Hawthorne.  While we were sitting in Barney's El Capitan restaurant I saw the same couple having lunch.  I told the waitress to bring me their bill and I paid it, asking her not to tell them who had done it until after we left.

            We left Hawthorne and rode down to June Lake, a small mountain community in the High Sierras where I had lived a few years earlier.  We stopped at some friends’ house, got cleaned up, and then we all went into town for dinner.   Over drinks and dinner we recounted our trip to my friends.  Amidst side-busting laughter, I began to realize what an incredible trip it had been.  We had a great dinner and a great time. We came away from the evening with the feeling that only time spent with good friends can give.

            The next morning we packed up and headed home to Southern California.  It was a leisurely 380 miles and we stopped often, once in Independence at Austin’s soda shop and once in Lone Pine at the city park.  All the way home I rode with a smile on my face.  Although I am usually a little down on the last leg of a trip, not really wanting it to end, this trip was different.  Somehow I had the feeling that it was the beginning of something special.  I was right.  A few years later Donna told me that it was on that trip that she decided to marry me.  She said that anyone that could have as good a time as we had, and who had the kind of friends that we had met, was certainly the kind of person she wanted to spend here life with.  It's been 20 years since that ride, and, although we don't get to ride as much as we would like, we are still together and happy.  My theory is that we started the relationship out right, on a motorcycle.  Of course, she takes all of the credit for our success, saying she knew it was "right" from the beginning.  What ever the reason, I just keep quiet and remember that ride, long, long ago.