Day 32 One O One

I decided that an early sprint up the coast road ahead of the radar predicted precipitation was in order. Conscious of the overhead of stopping at every overlook to titivate you with graphic panoramas I opted for the chest cam. What a disaster!

I’d already ditched the spare inner tube in the interests of losing weight but am now considering abandoning the go-pro chest harness too. I now have a comprehensive study of my tank bag in action, sorry about that.

Darleen and Zoran bade farewell and forgave me for divulging that the Rambo Fort Bragg (special forces HQ) is not the CA Fort Bragg (sleepy seaside town) but is in fact in North Carolina, and we headed off in opposed headings. I didn’t get far before the first failure. Less than ten miles and the speedo read zero. Oops! I need the odometer to tell me how full the tank is and to aid navigation, the speedometer needle is a handy defence agains the, allegedly (from Kevin) overzealous cops at this end of the highway.

I stopped and examined (captured handily here by the go-pro) and reconciled, I stopped again and tried to repair and located a Guzzi place in Portland, closed on Mondays as motorcycle shops often are. I phoned and left a message and ordered a replacement part from the excellent MG Cycle in MI (thanks again Rick and Gordon) for delivery to Portland. Nothing else to be done I proceeded using alternative methods. Occasional speed sensitive LED warning signs by the side of the road allowed me to calibrate the rev-counter for different gears, 3rd gear seems to match 100 rpm to 1 mph which is handy in the towns and saving the gas stations where I fill up as places on Google maps tells me how much I’ve emptied the tank.

She is handling better, thanks to pumping some air into the valves atop the front forks, roughly 15psi (they can run between 7 and 29 the internet tells me) to increase the pre-load. The engine is sweeter with the hotter plugs fitted although she still likes a bit of choke when starting.

Onwards over identical bridges over river mouths into ocean ports in Oregon. The shift from California is noticeable, the gas stations have attendants at the pumps to do something for you and their accents are tighter, more Canadian, the gas is cheaper too. People are friendly and more of them are chatting to me about the bike, perhaps more interested in their surroundings than themselves. One of the attendants pre-warned me about the magnificent road beyond Florence where the road dances between the cliffs and the ocean, a fellow traveller cautioned me about the high wind warnings from the radio. I danced, in that ‘dad dancing’ crap way, safely, along with the road and the rain held off perhaps not sure what to make of my moves.

Newport approached and, although tempted to stop by the density of bars, I pressed on to Lincoln City Value Inn, which is not too shabby and I recommend it to the desperate tired traveller. No food at the Oregon Saloon and a double IPA leaving me rocking. I cross the road to Maxwells for karaoke, no clam chowder left but the crab cakes and another IPA are good, the karaoke is not. Loud music to the exclusion of conversation. A seaside town that no one had the range to bomb.