Chicago to
California
We left on a Monday from my garage on North and Cicero. It was drizzling and then it began to down pour. With little else to do, our journey would be held up at a gas station on the west side of town.
Luckily, a roach coach would pull through with some hot tamales so we could get some chow. A nearby panhandler saw us and came over to see the bikes and ask if we had any spare change. The fun really started when the man took his shoes off displaying to us how long it's been since he last cut his toe nails. This fella needed a pedicure to say the least. Once we told him where we were going he begged for us to give him a ride to California on my back pillon seat. Rain now turned to drizzle and appetites now gone, it was time to get the hell outta there.
We finally saw a break in the weather and hit the highway. Heading south on the Dan Ryan expressway my bike started running on one cylinder. At that time I passed the 18th street exit which I live off and I'm already having problems. What the fuck!
The bike's running like shit and I think the pushrods are suspect. If it ain't broke don't fix it. The day prior to our departure a quick inspection revealed a couple loose rods. I decided to tighten 'em up a bit, which was a bit too much. Miraculously, the bike wakes back up and both cylinders seem to be cookin' again. In and out of rain showers, Tommy Pickles and I ride on. We get to the Bolingbrook area and readjusted the pushrods. She's back runnin' like a Jewish dreidel again.
The first night we only made it to Springfield, Illinois. The next two and half days would be plagued with light to heavy rain showers. I'm not even kidding, at times it rained so hard that my bike would cut out from water getting into the carb. I had to drain the float bowl three times till we got out of the rain.
We were so wet these first few days that when we'd walk, water bubbles would come out through the stitching in our boots.
It wasn't until Chetopa, Kansas that we got outta the rain. By now we had abandoned our original route that would have led us through Tulsa. Cruising down the main drag of Chetopa we saw a town that has suffered some real economic hardships.
An old dilapidated Victorian home with boarded up windows had a for sale price spray painted on a piece of plywood for 12,000 dollars. The only business left was a gas station. A man pulled up to the pumps, he seemed curious who we were. It's safe to assume everyone in this town knows everybody I guess.
We then asked him for directions to help keep us out of tropical storm Bill that was rippin' out of the Gulf and had been crushing us for the last couple days. He was probably early 50's and had a speech pattern and accent that reminded me of Ron White the comedian. All the while I'm just busting out laughing listening to this guy.
After a little small talk he told us, "yeah, ya'll can keep on down hwy 166 then take 169 North to 400 West. Once you get on 400, there ain't shit out there... I mean there ain't nothin' but the devil's breath. Nothin'." With exception to Wichita, this statement would come to be true for quite awhile, past Texas into New Mexico.
That line, "nothin' but the devil's breath," would become a repeated saying between Pickles and I, and a source of amusement to keep us going as the miles piled on each day.
20 miles outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico we stopped in a tavern for a couple of cold beers and arranged to meet up with an old buddy of Tommy's from his time in the army by the name of Jimmy Papers. That night we stayed up drinkin' import beers while they told stories from their time in Iraq.
The next day we woke up late feelin' like we had been rode hard and hung up wet. By this time my ass felt like a football team with cleats ran over it. It's a little after 10 in the morning and already its shit hot outside. Nothin' compared to what would come over the next two days.
Later that day, Pickles, eager to get back on Route 66 to get a genuine feel of Americana, leads us down a dirt road which we think may have been old route 66. There was an exit sign for RT 66 but once you left the highway no signs labeling it.
To my recollection, I don't think we knew where in the hell we were at that particular moment. It was hot and we were in the middle of B.F.E.
The road was unpaved and wash-boarded. We decided to turn back and as we turned around, my bike just locked up. I got that "shit outta luck" feelin' right about then. I got off the bike and I couldn't even kick it over. I thought she had given up the ghost.
I looked at Pickles and said, " this could be bad my man." I tried pushin' the bike and nothin'. She was all locked up. I looked over the bike for a minute and saw the chain was slightly tweaked. It had gotten on the high side of the rear sprocket, which caused the engine to suddenly stop.
Here we are in 100 degree heat, in the middle of a gravel road in the New Mexican desert, busted. At least it wasn't as bad as I initially thought. I loosened the axle, popped the chain back on and shortly there after, found the highway.
That day we would make Flagstaff. The elevation up there was demanding my engine earn each rotation of the flywheel, being that I still run the old Bendix carb. At least Pickle's Evo isn't causing any trouble. That bastard was running like it was at sea level still with its Super E.
We camped out that night and ate MRE's given to us earlier that day by Jimmy Papers.
In the morning we rode down to Sedona, Arizona and stopped at the Oak Creek Canyon for a dip after descending 7000 feet in the switchbacks from Flagstaff. Absolutely one of the most breathtaking rides you could ever go on. The red rocks, the canyons and just the landscape in general is so surreal for Midwesterners like us.
Pressing on we tried to make California that day but came up a little shy. Landing in a small desert town called Salome Arizona at Don's Cactus Bar on US 60. The idea was to have one cold drink and get back on the highway to SoCal.
I had one sip of that cocktail and said, "fuck it, let's stay at that flop house across the street." Pickles was onboard. Instead, based on a fellow at bar, we stayed at the Westward Motel around the corner. The owner Rande had saved this place years back from turning to complete ruins. Single handedly performing all repairs to the structure and decorated the property with unique relics and antiques that gave the place a truly awesome vibe.
In an effort to beat the heat, we woke up at 6 am to get back on the road. I went out on the front porch to have a smoke and finish my beer from the night before. Rande walks up says good morning and offers me a drag from his roach, I declined and asked if he had anymore beer. This dude was cool. " yeah, grab another from my fridge," he said.
He fills our tanks with some fuel he had sitting around and sends us on our way. Hitting the I-10 into Palm Springs we found out what real heat was that afternoon.
It felt like someone was holding a blow torch two inches from your skin it was so hot, not to mention the cross winds were insane. I said to Pickles, " If the bike can make it through this kind of punishment then this greasy bastard can make it the rest of the way."
And it did. We made LA about midway through the seventh day. Check back for our pics of Born Free 7 in a day or two.
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