| Clean Air, Dirty Bikes |
 Sputter...sputter...cough...quit. It's 10:30 on a Sunday night as I roll to a silent stop somewhere east of Globe on Highway 60. Usually, this occurrence would draw a barrage of insults and colorful complaints directed towards the bike's parentage, but the truth is I'm just too tired to care. Nearly 1700 miles has rolled beneath the  Triumph's wheels in the last 72 hours, including the visiting, shooting and frolicking one does at an event like a motorcycle rally. In this case, it was the 38th Moto Guzzi National Owner's Club meet, held this year in Salida, Colorado.OK, I hear what you're thinking, a Triumph at a Guzzi rally? Before you sentence me to a life of noobism, understand that I had good and reasonable cause. I could have taken any of the Guzzis in my workshop, even if the treads on each are a bit thin and the maintenance has lapsed behind. They suffer from the same insane schedule that is my life, but enough excuses. The Triumph, -a 1996 Daytona 900 triple to be precise- was clean, polished, serviced and (I thought...) ready to go. Mostly however I wanted to ride it, and the promise of blasting through miles of sweeping Colorado twisties on that big black cat was just too good to resist.  Packed, I leave the homestead half past three and scoot out of the hot valley towards Flagstaff. A few miles south of Flag and just as the sun is beginning to peak over the horizon, the bike begins to miss, then dies. For those of you who don't know, Bloor and his team decided to fit an idiot proof vacuum petcock to these early Hinckley's, a move inspired to keep the engine from sumping if one forgets to turn off the fuel. Of course, you'd need a float or two to stick as well, but that's beside the point. A year ago, I had grafted new fuel line and vacuum hoses in and around the big triples razor sharp airbox, insuring reliable fuel flow between the tank and carbs. For the past year its worked well...until now. Out of gas? I suspected that, but even if the fuel milage was in the mid-30s, basic multiplication suggests 175 miles is possible on six-gallons of fuel. Then again, maybe not. Gassed up, the big triple miraculously begins acting normal and I ponder if everything I know about motorcycles is a farce. Still, my depression regarding turning back with a broken bike is lifted as I jam east on I-40. Two hours later Mother Nature has her foot in my bladder, so I take some remote exit for your basic deposit and withdraw. Good decision. Back on 40 with a cheek full of Navajo jerky I spot a rider and his brand new California Vintage. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where he’s headed, especially when we exit at Gallup together.  Nearing fifty, I’ve come to several undeniable conclusions, and facing the fact that I’m a hopeless meanderer is one of them. I didn’t even take a map with me, choosing instead to fumble about the route until eventually stumbling upon the rally site. I’m happy when Eric Donnelly, my new riding buddy shows me his fancy GPS and radar, all pointed the right direction. Past Shiprock into Colorado and just a couple of bad decisions later we’re hauling ass through Wolf Creek Pass; the section I was looking forward to most. Pig heavy, the big Triumph loses a lot of its mass when it’s up on its legs and working, and not even a sworn member of Colorado’s finest is fazed when I zip past in a sharp right hander; committed and leaning. He either liked it or the bacon bagel was too good to put down. Eric’s electronics were working perfectly, but we still arrive at the rally late for dinner.   Except for the machines scrubbed and detailed for the bike show, the majority of the Guzzis present were enjoyed far and wide through weather, insects, and unpaved mountain passes. Jack Lundberg and his staff, along with a local group known as ‘The Sons of Italy’ did a fine job organizing the event, which included hard working Matt Forslund and his rolling Guzzi service center. With nearly 500 registered, one has to conclude the rally a success in these difficult economic times. On everyone’s mind was the news that Guzzi had suspended production at its historic Mandello facility, leaving many to wonder about the future of the company. Nevertheless, I have no doubt that regardless of the outcome, the world wide enthusiasm for Moto Guzzi that exists today will thrive and continue to grow.  Good folks, good food, great riding and plenty of bugs, the satisfaction gained from this extended biking weekend was even stronger than the disdain for my failing motorcycle. Gassed up, it returns to normal operation once again, leaving me to ponder how I can be so keenly adept at the art of making great friends, picking the right roads and enjoying the world’s best motorcycles, yet fail so miserably at simple math. Nolan Woodbury |
