Heading back to Vegas from LA we hit historic Route 66 in California for a while. The temperature outside was over 100 deg so we needed a little break. Food was not too shabby at Emmajean's Holland Burger Cafe. I don't know how long that place has been serving truckers and motorists along this route but it looks like it's been there forever.
This is a tiny joint with a counter and a few tables. The locals eating there look like something time forgot and the few outsiders stopping in for a quick bite look out of place. The blonde girl behind the counter was young and petite but packed a walloping voice as she yelled orders back to the cook. She later told us that her step father Mike had just passed away two weeks earlier. He was a Harley Davidson fan and she requested that we rev our engines as we left in a homage to him. We were more than happy to comply with the request and tore it up on that dusty spot of a place. Mike, I hope you heard us. RIP.
MC TIP. Avoid the desert during midday hours. Perhaps avoid altogether.
As we headed back out to Vegas we were riding again throug the Mojave Desert and temperature shot up. We rode and we rode and we rode throught that. These air cooled Harley engines run hot and in this heat they were starting to make chattering noise, metal expanding, stuff melting and fusing. The wind was hot. The air you breathed was hot in your lungs. It felt like you couldn't breath. After a while you became dehydrated. You started losing it. A few of us were getting very tired and sleepy. It was hellish heat. We had to stop at gas station just to rehydrate, shelter and rest for a while. I hate to even think what would happen if any one of us would break down in that. On some stretches there is nowhere to hide or shelter for many miles.
When we got back to Vegas and the hotel, we looked like something the cat dragged in. We were shot. Caput. Greg tells me, "I feel like I got hit by a truck." All this riding is wearing us down. The hellish heat is the cream on the cake.
The desert did not treat me too well. Somewhere along Rt. 66, big Greg tells me that something blew off my bike. After pulling over, it turned out to be the air horn. The metal snapped right off, fell to the pavement and shot into pieces. Later on highway 15, Frankie shoots past everybody and pulls us to the side; he had been riding behind me. He points to me to look at my saddle bags. Sure enough, a heavy motorcycle chain I had been carrying in my right saddle bag was breaking though the bottom of the bag, a hole cause by rubbing on my brake rotor, and dragging on the pavement. If that thing would've got caught in the rear wheel it could've been disastrous.
Good thing Frankie was there looking out. That is one good thing about being in a group. You look out for each other, the motorcycle, what you can't see, traffic, road conditions, etc. There are down sides as well which I'll get into later.
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