San Gabriel Glory and Mojave Madness

Well dear reader, after delays beyond our expectations, we finally got on the road.

We took the bikes for a top box and cigarette power point to be fitted on Chappers' ride, but things didn't go according to plan. The chap in charge of the soldering iron shouldn't be in charge of his own arse in case he confuses it with his elbow.
He managed to first set fire to Chappers clothes, by carelessly resting the soldering iron on the rear side of the left-hand hard pannier (the acrid aroma of burning plastic made it through to the waiting area so God only knows how he managed to keep it there long enough to go through to the contents and ignite them).
Then, after putting out the smouldering mess, did he inform his supervisor or indeed the customer? No. He carried on with the job in hand. This time he was painfully aware that a soldering iron should not be rested on plastic luggage mounting points. This time he rested it on the rear tyre. The sequence of events, we're led to believe, is that the workshop phone rang, he put the iron down, and took the call, taking notes, rang the finance department to pass the message on - incorrectly it turns out - and was then surprised to hear an almighty !BANG! as were we. That was the sound of a tyre going pop. Not heard it before, and don't really wish to hear it again. Of course the sound attracted just about every worker in the joint, who discovered the high-class workmanship demonstration that had been going on.

Eventually we were advised by the most frightened looking, and hottest, office girl in the showroom. If the tactic was to present us with perfect teeth and perfect boobies to calm us down, it worked. Still, the tyre needed replacing, as did the wheel (dented when it dropped a few inches onto the floor), and of course the luggage. Parts had to be ordered. Lovely girl arranged a Buell as a courtesy bike, and we headed back to Hollywood. Managed to get the same room too, which was good. Sunday was spent replacing Chappers clothes. I intended to blog about it that night, and realised the laptop was still in the undamaged pannier, at the bike shop. Oh well!
Anyway, to cut a long story down to mid-length, we finally got the bike handed back to us first thing this morning. Chappers barely complained at all, but was given the cost of replacement clothing without quibble, the wiring was re-done for free, the top box was half-price, and they covered half the hotel bill. Top quality service. One can't help but imagine had it happened in the UK they'd have covered up as much as they could, swapped tyres and left the damaged rim, and sprayed a bit air freshener to hope you didn't notice the burned plastic and clothes until you were too far away to return and hit them.

So, we took the machines, had a bit of a busy ride on the freeways toward Glendale, and then pulled off the network at the Angeles Crest Highway. Now and then on the way up we had a spot of trouble with ash from the wild fires further north and east up the valley. I kept getting it on my visor, and inhaling a bit, while Chappers really struggled with his vision and swallowed a lot more. I suggested he should buy a silk scarf before we set off to keep bugs out of his teeth but he wouldn't have it. The only thing he'd let near his mouth while riding would be a Cuban cigar, he said. Serves the daft git right.
We rode north into the San Gabriel Mountains. I'm afraid my skills with the English language fall short when confronted with the task of describing the beauteous majesty of these mountains, and their glorious sweeping roads. Your eyes and brain try to focus on where the ribbon of tarmac will next swoop, and the herd-like traffic you're jousting with, and all the while the very same senses wish to feast instead on the evergreen monsters crawling up the mountain sides, the sandy grey paths and trails, the ridges, the blue skies, occasional spikes of alien colour such as bright yellow trees, terracotta and white roofs and of course the ever twisting black velvet ribbon we were following disappearing and reappearing like a hypnotic serpent.
The ride was brisk, and at times hard work. We had a little fun and played with the cars, panel vans, wagons and RVs that we reeled in, like Pac Man and his little white dots. We caught them, we devoured them. Occasionally as the walls of the gloriously monstrous terrain loomed up to one side or the other, the sound of my engine would echo back at me from several directions. A beastly thump, thump, thump. A beat sounded out that when it returned could have been the rumbling of the San Andreas fault, toward which we were headed but wouldn't actually meet, sat as it is at the northern edge of the mountains.

After a glorious lifetime of fun that lasted just two hours (including a stop at one rest-area to take on board some fluids, letting some fluids out, and to wipe the ash from Chappers' rather grey face), we headed down and out of the mountain range, stopping in Wrightwood for gas and smokes. We then hit the highway south for a few miles to Cajun Pass. I swear I saw some train-spotters sat with their flasks and note-pads. Just like British ones but instead of parkas with fur hoods they had garish shirts and mid 90's skiing sunglasses. From Cajun Pass we picked up the road north toward Vegas. So with Chappers in his trousers, tassled jacket, piss-pot lid and aviator shades, me in my all-in-one snowy white race suit, we headed into the Mojave desert. The heat wasn't necessarily high, certainly I've ridden in hotter at home. The oppressiveness of the heat however was incredible. I know it sounds bloody obvious but the air is so dry, you just don't really grasp how much so until you're heading along a road through the middle of it, at 60mph. We tickled out near-empty fuel-tanks in to Barstow, prolonging the agony at 40mph so we wouldn't end up walking/pushing. Once refuelled in our bikes and our bellies, we headed off again. There was an "Only in America" moment as we passed a sign for "Zzyxx Road", before we pulled off a few miles later to see the world's tallest thermometer and refuel one last time. The big gauge said it was a mere 87deg-F (about 31 or 32 in European money). Easy-peasy when you're in a power-ranger outfit, and have a black fuel tank acting as a bakers stone 2 inches from your gonads. And off we went again. A nice easy run to Vegas!
Well, so we thought anyway.
As we crossed the border from California to Nevada on I-15 at a town called Primm, we hadn't spotted a state highway trooper looking to hand out some justice. Admittedly our speed had crept up a little in an effort to air-condition ourselves, but we didn't realise we were being such naughty boys. We were given the whoop-whoop and blue lights, and pulled over. A short dumpy chap with a Freddy Mercury moustache rolled out of the patrol car, and let the poor thing relax its springs for 5 minutes. His rolling gait was emphasised by the most bizarre limp I've ever seen. I couldn't even work out which leg was damaged. He also had dark patches under each arm, around his navel, and on his groin. Thank fuck I had a full face helmet on so I could cough back the laughter for a moment. I had the sweatiest nuts in Christendom in my leathers, but fortunately white leather and stretchy black kevlar weave stuff is very concealing. I regained control of myself, removed my helmet and looked sheepish. Textbook "sorry sir!" attitude. Let them be the boss, and take it like a man.
However, Officer Sweat-Patch looked pleased with himself, and clearly his day's hunting was paying rewards. He had caught two big beasts prowling across his ranch. We were advised that travelling in excess of 21mph above the speed limit of 70mph meant big trouble, points, and potentially a criminal record. Then I spoke. His jowls sank from smug chipmunk to deputy dawg in a slow two second sag. The two big nasties he had caught and bagged were turning out to be some sort of difficult-to-skin creatures. You could see his eyes ticking over, weighing up the paperwork involved, and a pair of furrnrrs would be too much it seems. That didn't stop him getting his ticket-book out though. He mightn't fancy making us appear at the courthouse, but he wasn't beyond making us tip the moths from our limey wallets, so instead we got some nice pretty tickets to pay fines. $623 each. I wouldn't mind but we didn't even crack the ton. Around £700 between us for pottering along at 99mph. Oh well, never mind.
And so, tails between our legs, we took the rest of the ride to Vegas at just below 70mph.

We checked in to The Venetian a few hours ago, took showers, and I caught an hour or two of shut-eye. Much needed. I'm not entirely sure how but I appear to have managed to sunburn the insides of my thighs. They're so tender right now. Well, I say not sure, but it's where the stretchy panels are in between the leather areas. On sports bikes and street bikes they'd be wrapped around a tank, but on the Harley they're sort of up and out. But even so, it's quite thick black material.
We're heading down to the tables in 20 minutes or so, and we'll spend a spot of pocket change and get some food. I'm reckoning on trying to keep to $250 tops. I fully expect to lose it, but no point being a fool and throwing much more away into fat cats wallets. Having said that, I'm not sure I can face losing more to Officer Sweat-Patch's fine than I do to the Vegas casinos.
Tomorrow I'm going to sleep some more, and then have a prowl along the strip to see Vegas's idea of architecture. Chappers has more friends he wishes to visit and say hello to. Might be a nice big barbecue meal for us in the evening too he thinks, so that will be nice. I would rather see the real Vegas, than the blister-packed sanitised tourist-trap.

Cheerio for now!