To Bonneville and Beyond

by anjel on August 14, 2009

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To Bonneville and Beyond:
Cruising though the lonesome Nevada landscape of hwy 50, we saw handfuls of motorcyclists passing us by in the other direction. For the most part, they were huge outfitted motorcycles consisting mostly of dressered Harley Davidson’s, Honda Goldwings, BMW’s, and a smattering of sport tourers. For these long stretches of straight road, these bikes make perfect sense with their steady power, comfortable seating positions, and large presence in an otherwise overwhelming landscape.
Then, there was me. I looked like I had taken a very long wrong turn out of NorCal. Tucked into my naked Ducati Monster s2r1000, wearing a helmet, and dressed head to toe in black, I was the obvious out-of-towner.  My touring cred was probably saved by Conn and his Suzuki C50 by the shear volume of the load he had managed to stack up on his bike. The engineering always drew a nod of approval and a, “Looks like you folks are traveling.” Whereas, I walked around in my fancy Italian stillettos and Conn carried all of my bags. I probably could have pulled my own weight on the bike, but it really is so much sexier with the rear cowl on, and who am I really to sacrifice a designer’s lines for function.
That said, the Monster was a blast out there.  It had never been up to speed before, and the thrill of taking it to almost 140 was something else. I’ll be honest, for a brief moment, I felt a little like a rebel charging through the west, a land usually occupied by pick-ups and cruisers. I was taking a beating out on the road, and was sure instead of thoughts of stupidity there were thoughts of admiration passing through people’s minds. Then, I saw the bicyclists slowly peddling their way up an incline that I knew went for miles through desert, at high noon, towing little trailers. One of the women gave me a cheery wave as we rode past, and my ego probably made an audible deflating noise. The last vestiges of ego were squeezed out when I remembered the historical significance of hwy 50 itself, and that men used to ride this route across the US on horseback, carrying a single canteen of water and a revolver, to deliver the mail.
We stopped at a gas station in Ely, before setting out on the final stretch to Bonneville for Speed Week. While gassing up, a truck pulled up towing a rusted body car from the early 1900s that had been cobbled together from random parts, with the words, “Bonneville Bathtub” emblazoned on the back in white painted letters. The guys with the car were a group of old friends since highschool, silver hairs and all, who walked over to us and immediately proved to be full of gearhead spirit and friendliness. We were invited to camp near them on the spot, and though this didn’t work out in the end, we did spend a lot of time with them over the two days we were there. Dennis, Bill, Rick, and Randy gave us the ins and outs of where to go. They were even kind enough to feed us. In fact, they do not know this but they gave me my first hamburger in 12 years, which I ate in minutes and could not even dream of a better scenario in which to do so–at the races and sharing a meal with some new friends.
One of the most striking take aways from Speed Week, was exactly this type of kindness and comraderie.  The AFM and AMA race events I have been to have not been unfriendly, however, they did not carry the same feeling of shared passion and collectiveness. This could be attributed to the lack of factory teams and that people are racing against themselves in any number of classes at Bonneville. The closest thing I ever saw to Bonneville spirit in AFM was watching independent Mike “Mr. Crash” Solis patch together his sv650 and race again and again, worn tires and duct tape be damned, going for his best lap times. People come from all over and from all types of lifestyles just for the privledge to be on the salt flats in the dead of summer–old timers, spectators, rockabilly rat rodders, retirees, scooter gangs, ricers, backpackers and more.
The energy was infectious. While hanging out in the pits at around the four mile mark, watching the racers blast by about a quarter mile away, the “what are we bringing in two years” question began to ping in my mind, “People are racing bar stools outfitted with motors that top out at around 70 mph, surely I can think of a class that I could wrench and be competitive in.” We were near the Purple Sage Trading Post sponsored team, a 243 mph Studebaker, whose crew raised a spare sunshade for us and brought out some chairs for us to sit on. The driver, Loyd “Hooley” Huffman had the familiar Oklahoman drawl of my grandfather. He looked me right in the eye and gestured over to Conn and said, “He’s planning on building something ain’t he.” I did not tell him it was in fact me that was scheming, but I still felt like I had been caught red handed. He smiled, and imparted some sagely racer wisdom, “This here race isn’t about being the fastest, or beating out your buddy, it’s a race of time. Most of all, it’s a race against yourself that you get to define.” I just about died from a surge of adrenaline after that.
Leaving Bonneville, with dreams of motorcycle land speed records dancing in my head, we rode off into Salt Lake City visiting a few friends and then on into Denver concluding the main motorcycle portion of our trip. I will be honest, I wish it was not. It was such a great way to pass through landscapes and towns with the independence to make your own time table. For the remainder of the year, I will just have to shift my motorcycle scheming energy off of Bonneville and instead into ways to find inexpensive moto touring opportunities overseas.

Cruising though the lonesome Nevada landscape of hwy 50, we saw handfuls of motorcyclists passing us by in the other direction. For the most part, they were huge outfitted motorcycles consisting mostly of dressed Harley Davidsons, Honda Goldwings, BMW’s, and a smattering of sport tourers. For these long stretches of straight road, these bikes make perfect sense with their steady power, comfortable seating positions, and large presence in an otherwise overwhelming landscape.

Then, there was me. I looked like I had taken a very long wrong turn out of NorCal. Tucked into my naked Ducati Monster s2r1000, wearing a helmet, and dressed head to toe in black, I was the obvious out-of-towner.  My touring cred was probably saved by Conn and his Suzuki C50 by the shear volume of the load he had managed to stack up on his bike. The engineering always drew a nod of approval and a, “Looks like you folks are traveling.” Whereas, I walked around in my fancy Italian stilettos and Conn carried all of my bags. I probably could have pulled my own weight on the bike, but it really is so much sexier with the rear cowl on, and who am I really to sacrifice a designer’s lines for function.

DSCN2300

That said, the Monster was a blast out there.  It had never been up to speed before, and the thrill of taking it to almost 140 was something else. I’ll be honest, for a brief moment, I felt a little like a rebel charging through the west, a land usually occupied by pick-ups and cruisers. I was taking a beating out on the road, and was sure instead of thoughts of stupidity there were thoughts of admiration passing through people’s minds. Then, I saw the bicyclists slowly peddling their way up an incline that I knew went for miles through desert, at high noon, towing little trailers. One of the women gave me a cheery wave as we rode past, and my ego probably made an audible deflating noise. The last vestiges of ego were squeezed out when I remembered the historical significance of hwy 50 itself, and that men used to ride this route across the US on horseback, carrying a single canteen of water and a revolver, to deliver the mail.

We stopped at a gas station in Ely, before setting out on the final stretch to Bonneville for Speed Week. While gassing up, a truck pulled up towing a rusted body car from the early 1900s that had been cobbled together from random parts, with the words, “Bonneville Bathtub” emblazoned on the back in white painted letters. The guys with the car were a group of old friends since high school, silver hairs and all, who walked over to us and immediately proved to be full of gear head spirit and friendliness. We were invited to camp near them on the spot, and though this didn’t work out in the end, we did spend a lot of time with them over the two days we were there. Dennis, Bill, Rick, and Randy gave us the ins and outs of where to go. They were even kind enough to feed us. In fact, they do not know this but they gave me my first hamburger in 12 years, which I ate in minutes and could not even dream of a better scenario in which to do so–at the races and sharing a meal with some new friends.

DSCN2537

One of the most striking take aways from Speed Week, was exactly this type of kindness and camaraderie.  The AFM and AMA race events I have been to have not been unfriendly, however, they did not carry the same feeling of shared passion and collectiveness. This could be attributed to the lack of factory teams and that people are racing against themselves in any number of classes at Bonneville. The closest thing I ever saw to Bonneville spirit in AFM was watching independent Mike “Mr. Crash” Solis patch together his sv650 and race again and again, worn tires and duct tape be damned, going for his best lap times. People come from all over and from all types of lifestyles just for the privilege to be on the salt flats in the dead of summer–old timers, spectators, rockabilly rat rodders, retirees, scooter gangs, ricers, backpackers and more.

The energy was infectious. While hanging out in the pits at around the four mile mark, watching the racers blast by about a quarter mile away, the “what are we bringing in two years” question began to ping in my mind, “People are racing bar stools outfitted with motors that top out at around 70 mph, surely I can think of a class that I could wrench and be competitive in.” We were near the Purple Sage Trading Post sponsored team, a 243 mph Studebaker, whose crew raised a spare sunshade for us and brought out some chairs for us to sit on. The driver, Loyd “Hooley” Huffman had the familiar Oklahoman drawl of my grandfather. He looked me right in the eye and gestured over to Conn and said, “He’s planning on building something ain’t he.” I did not tell him it was in fact me that was scheming, but I still felt like I had been caught red handed. He smiled, and imparted some sagely racer wisdom, “This here race isn’t about being the fastest, or beating out your buddy, it’s a race of time. Most of all, it’s a race against yourself that you get to define.” I just about died from a surge of adrenaline after that.

courtesy Purple Sage Trading Post

courtesy Purple Sage Trading Post

Leaving Bonneville, with dreams of motorcycle land speed records dancing in my head, we rode off into Salt Lake City visiting a few friends and then on into Denver concluding the main motorcycle portion of our trip. I will be honest, I wish it was not. It was such a great way to pass through landscapes and towns with the independence to make your own time table. For the remainder of the year, I will just have to shift my motorcycle scheming energy off of Bonneville and instead into ways to find inexpensive moto touring opportunities overseas.

{ 7 comments… read them below or add one }

1 Richard August 15, 2009 at 5:39 am

Now that IS freedom.

Reply

2 Andra Norris August 18, 2009 at 5:42 pm

Nice piece. I enjoyed reading it very much. Wish I was there!

Reply

3 Marcelo August 19, 2009 at 11:00 am

On the motor lover blog, Jalopnik: Why Bonneville is Important http://jalopnik.com/5336869/why-bonneville-is-important

Reply

4 connal August 20, 2009 at 1:00 pm

Nice article on Jalopnik. Also, for anyone else not sure what the interest is in Bonneville, check out the movie The World’s Fastest Indian. A great film, even if you’re not a gearhead. We watched it with Chris and V the night before we left and they loved it.

Reply

5 Elaine & Glenn August 21, 2010 at 10:12 am

Just found your web address in Glenn’s wallet, only a year after we were in the States for Speed Week. Better late than never, we were the Aussies you shared the shade with at Hooley’s pit area. Finally will get a chance to check out your adventures

Reply

6 connal August 22, 2010 at 5:26 am

Elaine, we definitely remember you two! Hope you had a great trip through the states. The only part of Australia we spent any time in was Tasmania, but it was fantastic!

http://adangerousbusiness.com/2010/03/10/trekking-the-overland-track/

Reply

7 Hooley January 16, 2011 at 7:26 pm

That sunny day at the Salt is a vivied memory for me also. I have told about meeting you and Glen and Elaine in the pits. Have you been back to the salt to ride or drive as a competitor? I just ran across this site. A well told story and I was glad I could be a part of it. Good luck Hooley

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