A 3-day ride with Tim Mayhew of Pashnit Motorcycle tours.
In short: a group of mostly complete-strangers meet up with a Wisconsin transplant and become a motley crew of asphalt avengers.
I pulled up to the café around 7am. After rising at the ungodly 5am hour, I was almost jittery with anticipation. Many moons ago, I was a simple college student who had secret dreams of riding somewhere far away. In my many motorcycle searches online, I fell across the website of a guy named Tim. Tim was a guy with a similar interest and a very good story to tell. And he had something else that no one had really ever done before. Tim had a mission to travel and photograph every road in California for all to share. I really got into his tales of his travels onboard an old Yamaha venture.
Tim kind of became my hero. Any now I was about to ride with him. I could hardly contain myself.
I had previously had met Tim briefly at the annual motorcycle show in San Mateo, though it was a very brief encounter. Tim pulled up last and parked next to our line of bikes. I had forgotten how jovial and friendly Tim was. He greeted all the riders and we went across the street to have a quick coffee and a pre-ride meeting.
Tim handed out a sheet of paper with everyone’s contact information and a safety information sheet. He talked about his experiences with group rides and went over many scenarios that resulted in accidents and how he thought they could have been prevented. In particular, he spoke about the “fourth guy” rule: In his experiences, a lot of accidents seemed to involve the fourth guy in a group of riders. He explained that the first guy was the lead rider (usually him), followed by the next two fast riders, usually guys who knew each other. The so-called fourth guy was the rider that was trying to keep up with the fast guys. Usually, the fourth guy managed to keep up by riding a bit outside his abilities, usually to his determent.
After the meeting, we set out up Mt. Tamalpias and began to climb up through a pretty heavy fog. It was still 8am or so and the marine layer had yet to burn off. An un-cohesive group of bikes slowly winded their way up the mountain and eventually reached above the fog. The hills were tan and showed their mid summer thirst. We took a rest and descended down various side roads to hwy 1.
Note the order: fast guys arriving first on the left
Winding up the coast, we rode up north of Bodega Bay and stopped for lunch. The group had started to gel almost organically; we figured out who were the fast guys, the middle guys and who brought up the rear.
Pictured on left: Mark, Motorcycle sweep extraordinaire!
Stopping just before Hardy Creek Ranch, we had a mental brake before the road tightened up. This was the first time we’d really start hitting the twisties. Immediately, Tim, Joe, Darius, Ross, and Dave took off on their respective bikes (Hayabusa, S1000, Ulysses, Bandit, and FJR) and were a distant thought. Taylor, my fellow V-Strom rider and I grouped with Kevin, a recently made Multistrada owner and we made up the middle group. Dr. Dave, Bruce, and Mark made up the rear (Wide Glide, VTX, Tiger).
Day 1 ended with the group blasting up a freeway stretch of hwy 101 to make it to our hotel. We were all pretty fried when we started to knock back micro-brews. Dinner was a pretty awesome turkey club with salad. Conversation was bike-related and full of laughter.
A funny thing happened around that dinner table; simple names and bike choices for identification became occupations and personalities. Next to me, Joe was on a whirlwind 29-day tour of the west on a BMW S1000R! Certainly a hardy soul, Joe was undertaking a ride that most would shrink away from mounted on the largest luxury-touring barge. Joe had a map, a plan to concur the twistiest roads, and a 4-day laundry cycle. He had been on the road for 9 days already and was great company. I sat across from Taylor, a rather important person in a well-known bay area company. The others also had tales to tell. And I would hear them as time went by.
Tim made his entrance into the restaurant last. Sitting next to Taylor, I was amazed to hear the very human side of an internet-celebrity story. I have to admit, I was still a bit star-struck. My impression of Tim was based on his modest online empire; selling parts, writing, and running his touring company. I almost expected a phony, but a very accessible and modest guy pleasantly surprised me. He had the same problems as most of us: too many things to do and not enough time to do them. I was shocked to hear that almost all of the riding he does is only during his tours. The rest of the year is taken up being the father of 3, and the employer of 1.
We retired and prepared for the next day of riding. The parking lot of the hotel had filled with motorcycles. It appeared as though we weren’t the only ones who knew that this was prime riding country.
Day 2: a cha-cha in the butterflies
After the normal morning groaning after a 500-mile day, we mounted our rides and took off towards Hwy 36. The morning started briskly, save for a stretch blocked by a diesel-fume spewing truck. At one point, the driver sped up so fast that the ATV that he was carrying caught air as the truck slammed back down on the pavement - These back-woods folks were pretty prissy about letting a few bikes pass!
I once read that Tim had started with the freeways, followed by the main by-ways, and once he ran out of those, he began to ride the goat trails. After highway 36, we tried our luck on Forest Road 1. It's a s a REALLY rough 1-lane road. I was amazed that no one had any issues; there were potholes that you could have taken a bath in.
Stopping at the top of a long uphill section, Tim led us up a hill to a welcoming vista. We all burned up some digital film and headed down the trail.
Monarch butterflies migrate between Canada and Mexico annually about 4 times during their lifespan. I wondered which way they were headed as we bumbled through large clouds of the insects. It was an interesting oddity to witness; motorcycles pushing through butterflies whist trying to avoid destroying a wheel.
The next part of 36 was the return of the twisties with a vengeance. The high-speed gentle curves gave way to a very technical mountain decent. The road was marked 25, and we were navigating it at around 40 as we alternated between hard lefts and rights. As I began the section, I drew upon the confidence that I had been acquiring during our first day together.
I have to admit, one of my shortcomings has to do with descending left-hand turns, especially where the turn is more than 90 degrees. For some reason, I can’t form a good line, even when starting from the outside.
Carefully studying Tim & Joe carve the road up ahead, I had an “a-ha” moment. I had realized that I had formed a bad habit out of fear these steep turns. I suddenly realized that I was doing two things incorrectly. First, because of how sharp these turns were, I began staring at the centerline in the turn instead of looking through the turn as you are supposed to do. This caused me to turn in early and cut too close to the centerline, which in turn made me nervously de-lean the bike. This would cause the bike to then turn wide, resulting in braking and a generally poor performance.
Learning from my mistakes, I began to talk to myself “LOOK THROUGH THE TURN” I exclaimed in my helmet. It was right then a funny thing happened. I began to take the line I wanted. Speed was a by-product of technique. “Technique, technique, technique!” Tim had said the night before. My fears relaxed, the bike complied. I had never touched down a peg before in my life. The sudden feeling of metal rubbing asphalt was unmistakable and jarring. Like most, the first time makes you back off the lean of the bike. The next time, you want to lean a bit more. The smiles and the scrapes began to get longer.
We stopped for a break at the bottom of the mountain. Kevin said to me, “Dude, you were hauling ass!” I couldn’t be more pleased. It was almost as good as the first time I rode a twisty road. After a long period of motorcycle-melancholy, I was born again.
Hwy 299 is nothing short of a racetrack. The tarmac was almost perfect, the road was full of high-speed sweepers and we absolutely destroyed that road. Over dinner the previous day, I had told Joe that he had to ride Skaggs spring road, a local favorite. Over lunch today, I told him to forget it and ride hwy 299 again. As we got off the bikes to eat, I was actively thinking of ways that I could move up to this area so I could ride it on a regular basis; the road was that good.
After lunch, we started back towards our lodgings. Everything was going well until I suddenly felt a stabbing pain on my neck. I yanked the bike off the road and threw off my gloves and helmet. Bruce, our trusty sweep and all-around-nice-guy dutifully came to my aid and between the two of us, determined that the bee sting was not life threatening. It also dawned on me that this was a different experience that I was used to as a motorcycle loner; a safety net during a long ride was a welcome change.
Returning via Hwy 36, we pulled into our home base and settled in. The group gelled more and the beer flowed. Bruce graciously accepted my offer to buy him a beer for the bee-sting assist. A busy Saturday night made for a 2-hour wait for food. Finally about at about 10pm, the food arrived, and other than Darius’s twice returned steak, the sudden silence displayed the general approval of the fare.
Day 3: krumping in the dirt
I woke up excited again on Sunday, more great riding, and eventually I’d see my wife and baby. I knew that I’d make time on the slab later, but as with most of this trip, I was content with letting someone else worry about the schedule. For years previously, I’d always ask myself why would I pay someone to lead me around on my bike when Google could do that for free. In this experience I had my answer; sit back, concentrate on riding, and leave the details up to the experts.
Riding south on Hwy 101, we carved through the famed “Avenue of the Giants”. The route is known for its giant redwood forests, many of which have trees hundreds of years old. I had been here once before and wished that I was on a motorcycle so I could better enjoy the view. The trees are so tall, that the view from the ground creates a somewhat “tunnel-vision” effect when you look up at them.
Being from out of state, Joe seemed especially impressed, exclaiming, “We got nothing like this at home!”
As we departed the grove, we whisked past small roadside attractions and campgrounds until the road ended and rejoined hwy 101. We headed south and stopped near the intersection of 1 and 101.
About this time, the word had spread that our intrepid sweeper, Mark had had a run in with the law. We waited for him and eventually he pulled up with a sheepish grin on his face. He mimed the act of getting handcuffed as he exclaimed that he must have passed the “a$%h#$#” test. No ticket today.
During our trip north on Friday, we road the same stretch of hwy 1. It was a very tight and technical road. Taylor had been uncomfortable with the previous pace, so he had decided to hang back a bit and take it easy. I lead out the middle pack, raring to tear it up again.
This time, I had taken my simple little peg scrape and turned it into a full on metal shower. I rubbed down both sides and was incredibly proud of my amazing new abilities.
Then it happened. As we approached the LAST hard left before the road straightened out, we cleared the tree line. The left turn was right in front of an open field with a barn. I remember thinking to myself “look, a field!” My mental break was about to cost me money. Almost as soon as I realized that I was not paying attention, I ran out of time to turn and panicked. I pulled the reigns and felt the ABS kick in. There just wasn’t enough road to stop in time. I managed to haul in the bike enough to go off the tarmac at a low speed, but the shoulder was full of powdery dirt and the bike succumbed to physics.
I was told that the dismount was rather graceful; it wasn’t really a full get-off. More or less, it was a slow slide in the dirt, followed by dropping the bike at about 5mph. I hopped off, threw up my hands and made a shoulder-drooping motion.
Immediately, my comrades ran to my aid. We lifted the bike and surveyed the damage.
“Ready to get some crash-bars for that multi?” I asked Kevin, as we had found that the plastics had all been spared, save the side of my Givi case. The damage to that case was okay; it was immediate Internet credibility on ADVenturerider.com. The damage report included some lightly scraped crash-bars, and end broken off the clutch lever, and a broken turn signal. Later I also discovered that my home-made side-case rack had broken a weld and would need repair. Not too bad, except for the reduction of ego points. I immediately began to analyze my mistake as we rode to catch up with the group.
As we regrouped, I regaled the gang with the tale of my adventure. We all had a good laugh about it, but deep inside I felt awful. I really felt that I had become a better rider during this trip, but what I really did was get too full of myself. My pride in staying somewhat near the lead group led to my mistake. Granted, I was tired and had been putting in a lot of miles the last couple of days, but it was no excuse. Simply put, I had ignored my levelheaded philosophy of riding, drunk with adrenaline and ego and pushed the boundary too far.
I obtained a genuine Pashint turn signal repair with some electrical tape and we broke towards our lunch destination. Sitting at the lunch table, I think Tim could see it on my face and told me that I had to let it go. It really was a cheap lesson. Any tumble so gentle that you could ride away from right away was a very fortunate occurrence.
It was rather sad, parting ways with the gang. I took a moment to thank Darius and Dave for the kind words; they had told me that I was a good rider, and not to let the mistake get me down. I told Joe that he was an amazing rider and wished him well on his trip.
I hit the last section of twisties with Tim, Bruce, and Kevin before we split up for the ride home. It was a more sane level of riding for me, but we still had a bit of fun. One last gas station bull session, and we said our goodbyes and took off for the super slab.
I had a second epiphany on the way home. Tim had talked about his simple rules to avoid crashing and I had forgotten to heed the rule that got me. Reviewing the last section of hwy 1 in my mind, it dawned on me that I was pretty much 4th in line behind time. I was in fact, the “fourth guy”! I finally was able to laugh at myself a bit. Motorcycling is a humbling sport; if you’re lucky, the severity of your tumble can be up to you. I was glad for the cheap lesson in humility.
