The Real Journey is Where You Break Down

Of course this working title can mean so much to many different people.  For me it was my first functional empty nest experience.  My family didn’t need my focused attention anymore. Mentally I embraced it fully.  Physically, I imagine it looked like me twiddling my lips with my index finger, for lack of a plan or proper equipment.   

The picture you see here is not my bike.  The man who built it is an unwitting contributor to one of my fondest memories.  Ever.   Follow if you can. Get your paper map out if you need to. It’s what my grandma always did when I told her of my trips.

I had heard about a women’s motorcycle campout in the California desert and was intrigued.  Most of my life had been spent in and around motorcycle camping and hosting, and women who ride were always a welcome anomaly.  That Fall was supposed to be a meetup of 500 or so women (only) somewhere out there, with music, food, and beer that I didn’t have to provide.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a joiner, and I very much suck at socializing, but I appreciated the idea of a venue where women can try something new, something typically reserved for their male counterparts.  I had to experience this just once.

 So off I went, solo, on a borrowed V-Strom with ALL of my unnecessary gear, my very rusty skills, and a continuous prayer.  It would take quite a while  to get to Joshua Tree, so I figured I would split it up and camp at Lake Isabella to  be alone in my head while I tuned up my rusty skills. It was dark when I pulled in for the night, and windy and chilly too.  I wasn’t really in the mood to fight the wind with my tent skills after dodging black cows in the dark coming up Bodfish Rd. I opted to throw my bag and brand new fancy inflato-pad on the picnic table and called it a night.

Hound dogs.  Seriously, my fancy inflato-pad sounded like tiny hound dogs every time I turned over, which was often on that night. 

Camp coffee is glorious, especially when you remember to add the coffee.  :) 

I warmed up in the sun, reorganized my gear, paid the ranger, and got on my way.  It was already getting hot.

I came across another solo rider on the side of the road, trouble shooting her very old motorcycle. My first thought, inspired by the bright orange helmet, the hippy flowered jeans, and the skateboard strapped to the back rest was “That’s so awesome!  She’s embracing everything life has to offer!”  And then it occured to me that we are 30 miles from anywhere in the hot desert when all of my intrusive mothering thoughts came rushing in.  Does she even have water? Does she know about human trafficking? Is she hungry?   I’m perfectly aware that a twenty-something moto-woman is not interested in the concerns of someone else’s mother.  But she is someone’s daughter, so as not to squelch her dream, I kept my intrusive thoughts to myself and stopped to see if she needed any help.  All I could really offer was an “atta girl” and some water, and maybe a ride to the nearest town.  I’m no mechanic, and I was not carrying spare parts for a dilapidated CB 400.

It turns out the bike would run but lose power.  I knew there was a tiny ghost town up ahead where a few people lived, but there were no services.  At least we could find water and pause in the shade and figure the next step.  I had driven through it once and always wanted to come back one day and spend time.  This was apparently that day. She decided to limp her bike there and I followed just to be sure she made it.  She had already come a really long way. 

Randsburg had changed since I had last  been through there.  Someone had brought some new life and love to this little place, still keeping its original charm.  It now serves fountain sodas and cheeseburgers to desert dual-sporters and wayward travelers.  Not that day, though.  Everything was buttoned up tight.  At least there was shade. I shared some of my now warm water and we proceeded to jiggle the wires some more. I had cell service though, so I called my very mechanical husband and asked him to talk me through some trouble-shooting over the phone.  He laughed at first, because he knows me, but he tried to help anyway.

After some time, a wonderful man popped his head out of the General Store and asked if we were ok and if we needed anything. He had been out back working on a project and didn’t hear us arrive. I for one needed a truly cold water..and maybe a postcard from such a cool place.  She clearly needed a mechanic and spare parts, but I didn’t figure we would find any of those things in there.  

“I might know a guy,” he said. “Let me make a call.”  He described our apparent problem over the phone and we were invited to a guys shed around a couple of corners and out in the back.

Here came my intrusive thoughts again.  Wayward women on funky motos, headed to a strangers back shed out in the desert, on the outskirts of a ghost town. You know…..but I kept those thoughts to myself and offered up the idea that this was a wonderful adventure.  

This is where that bike in the picture comes into play.

After a few missed turns and a lovely tour through some very darling neighborhoods, we found the man, and the shed. It wasn't a shed really. It was a bonafide shop filled with years of history and a clear desire for speed.  I'm no mechanic, but I'm no dummy. I mean, I had seen the movie the Worlds Fastest Indian and consider my self slightly more educated than before I saw the movie. Clearly, this bike was not built for a jaunt to the General Store. And I surmised by the photos in the background that this had been to salty white places and gone very fast. He assured me that it holds some records.

My mind (but thankfully not my mouth) was already trying to manufacture and install a bag just big enough for a bottle of water. You know, in case after a long run of 200-and-something miles per hour you couldn't get back to the pit and felt thirsty. "Don't be silly, Jen," I had to remind myself.

While I was distracted, Mickey had already pulled his rolling stool up to Abby's bike and commenced to testing the wires, rebuilding the carburetor, checking fuel lines, and regaling us with amazing stories of racing and maritime interests. I felt unworthy to even stand in his shadow, but there I was.

I was enjoying this so much, both the stories and the refreshments that his lovely wife brought out, and her stories, too. Maybe too much. I flashed for a moment on ripping a critical wire or two out of place on my own bike so my husband would have to come rescue me and talk race and bike stuff, kind of like a joyful translator. I didn't do it. That's just weird.

Everything seemed to be running ok, for an on the spot fix. The time had passed and we were facing after dark arrival at Babes Ride Out, so Abby decided to give it another try. We made it as far as the 58/395 intersection and it acted up again. Ugh! Anywhere but this intersection. If you've ever been stuck there, you know. There were a couple of options: get her safely checked in to the seedy-looking motel across the way and get moving again, sit with her while she figures it out, or reach out to Mickey again and see what he thought.

After so much hospitality had already been offered, option three felt a little awkward, being 30 or so miles from their place. But it was the best option. She was comfortable waiting alone so she sent me on my way while they came and pick Abby and her bike up.

Once again, I arrived after dark. Tired and a little anxious. I now had to set my new tent up in the dark, in the wind, in the sand, and I hate scorpions (not that a saw any, but I fear scorpions in the same way I fear bears. I have had an unpleasant experience with both).

But there were food trucks and bathrooms and beer nearby along with the evenings karaoke and live music. And free rum.

The wind BLOWS in Joshua Tree. Especially in a major wind event like what happened that weekend. My solution for sleep in such conditions? Turn the tent opening away from the wind, even if your zipper still works, and free rum. 

I woke up to a beautiful weekend, a well organized event, a lot of smiling faces, great coffee, a great food, a natural history booth with great paper route maps, and a pretty good attitude.

I covered a lot of ground that weekend (1200 miles to be exact) and saw the kinds of beautiful places you can only see when you get off the interstate. My favorite sites were Salton Sea, Salvation Mtn, and date farms. And as much as I appreciate that such an event exists for women who ride, my personal takeaway was that it was too people-y for my insufficient social skills. But if you know a woman who rides, tell her to try Babes Ride Out sometime. It's a truly worthy experience.

The return trip home was welcomely uneventful. I stopped in to Mickeys place to see how things for Abby turned out. After a good nights sleep, a delicious cooked meal, and a little more tinkering on the Moto, her ride came for her safe return home. Turns out it was the oil. Ya just gotta giggle. Sometimes the simplest solutions can be overlooked in a complicated situation. I'm glad I checked in and put my mind at ease. I haven't sought them out since that weekend, because it feels a little creepy to someone who loves their privacy like me. I would not trade those events for anything.

Mickey Gooden and his lovely wife are my heros, and Abby is my inspiration.  I regret that a didn't snap a pictures of them. She is a talented artist and left me with a stunning piece that I could take with me.That key chain sits in the glass lamp of really important things like my kids favorite hot wheels, model airplane parts, trap shooting patches,  and swim medals.

Take that trip!   Let the journey unfold.  :)