K
kmkahuna
Guest
http://guywebstermuseummay30th2009.shutterfly.com/25
http://www.oilmuseum.net/
My 30 May ride from Moorpark CA to Ojai for the Harry Quinn Vintage M/C Ride to the Guy Webster/Mike Taggart Museum started in San Diego, with my trusty R850R and my neighbor's R100 strapped down in the back of my Ford F150. After some coffee, a 0500 departure, and a quick McDonalds stop in San Clemente, Marc, Donna and I rolled into Moorpark, unloaded the bikes and joined the 300-odd riders wandering the street and lining up for the john in the Cactus Patch, God love 'em for having patience with all of us. The Quinn family's practicality, common sense, and obvious love for the simple act of riding was evident in the pre-ride get together, and after some simple rules, a detailed explanation of the route to which I am sure 298 of us said "uh, okay, I'll just follow you", we mounted up, and noisily left Moorpark, leaving it quiet and empty, like it was before we barreled in.
It was misty and cool, and as this was my first real experience riding in a large group, I focused on keeping the pace and the interval, only to find myself turning into a subdivision, lemming-like, following the pack, until a knowledgeable rider wildly gesticulated to the other few hundred of us to stay on the main road! Soon enough, however, I quickly adjusted to the "feel" of a big ride, and I really loved it. The hook was really sinking in to my cheek now....
Some observations from the trip to Ojai: the "snake" of hundreds of headlights behind me...the smell of 2-stroke racing bikes in front of me; Old guys on new bikes, young guys on old bikes; orange groves; twistys toward a quarry in the hills; the smell of raw petroleum oozing out of the ground ( for those environmentalists in the crowd..it's NATURAL! we're talking southern California here!); smells of fresh hay and horse manure; a veritable sea of different motorcycles, but the acute rarity of the Harley Davidson crowd; the incredible beauty of the foothills of California, where NORCAL meets SOCAL; planes landing in Santa Paula; dual feelings of camaraderie and independence (hook is really deep in the cheek...man this is fun); all finishing with a mass arrival in Ojai at the Guy Webster/Mike Taggart museum.
I was wondering how to top a ride with hundreds of classic, beautifully restored bikes, until I walked into the museum's Italian wing.
A small corner was fully stocked with tools, books, a compressor, etc, the perfect "garage" we all want in our homes, and all around me, in every square inch of space, was motorcycles and cars. That in and of itself is overwhelming, but it got better.
The real magic came from the details: carburetors, shocks, tires, fenders, decals. Every part in perfect, original condition. Valve rockers on the outside, flywheels right next to your boot, A tidal wave of history, numerous racing machines in stock condition, immaculate paint jobs on motorcycles that you could picture on a track somewhere in Italy or here, 30, 40, 50 years ago...I could see the tools and the smell the grease and petrol. I could hear the unintelligble sound of Italian, while racers and their mechanics talked to each other to squeeze more power, more speed, out of these bikes. It was what I liked most about the day; the journey back in time.
The new British wing seemed a bit more grounded in reality, not because those stories and memories weren't in the bikes, but probably because I was in sensory overload by that time. A small bookshelf with helmets, pictures, and various personal items made the collection more intimate, more personal. That, and along with a big ass RV in the room, I felt more like being in Mr. Webster's/Taggart's garage, vice a museum. An excellent way to view another mind-numbing collection of classic bikes.
I secretly was a bit envious of my neighbor Marc as he drooled over a CCM dirtbike in the corner, telling his wife Donna the complete history, mechanical theory, and the racing legacy of that particular model. His passion for these bikes, along with an encyclopedic knowledge of every detail, is something all us riders should strive for. Even if I can't remember the tire pressure for a 1956 BSA Road Rocket, I can appreciate the love and passion that generates that sort of detailed memory.
On our way back to the bikes, we stopped again at the Italian wing, and got to see the place with only a few souls still inside. As the doors were closing, and I snapped away, taking every picture I could, we met Guy and thanked him for the visit. I read an article about him, where he mentioned that he believed that this collection was only his temporarily, that someday it will belong to another, and another, and another. I hope that his prediction is accurate; and that the next owner is as generous with it as he has been.
Marc, Donna and I finished with a mexican lunch, and a visit to the Petroleum Museum in Santa Paula. A combination oil history and local firefighting museum, it was another fascinating trip in time, to the "there will be blood" days of oil, as well as a reminder of how oil is the economic engine of our time.
The trip was also an affirmation of the generosity of those who are wealthy, and a complete repudiation of the class warfare that now emanates from our government....at least for me, it was. The idea that such a collection could have been better offered by the State, or the Government, is simply ludicrous. Not that our government is advocating the wholesale confiscation of individual property.....yet.
So, yep, looking at someone else's excessive wealth, made me feel patriotic! God Bless America!
In the future, may we all have the freedom to buy as many BMWs and Moto-Guzzis as we want!
Kurt Kohanowich, San Diego CA
http://www.oilmuseum.net/
My 30 May ride from Moorpark CA to Ojai for the Harry Quinn Vintage M/C Ride to the Guy Webster/Mike Taggart Museum started in San Diego, with my trusty R850R and my neighbor's R100 strapped down in the back of my Ford F150. After some coffee, a 0500 departure, and a quick McDonalds stop in San Clemente, Marc, Donna and I rolled into Moorpark, unloaded the bikes and joined the 300-odd riders wandering the street and lining up for the john in the Cactus Patch, God love 'em for having patience with all of us. The Quinn family's practicality, common sense, and obvious love for the simple act of riding was evident in the pre-ride get together, and after some simple rules, a detailed explanation of the route to which I am sure 298 of us said "uh, okay, I'll just follow you", we mounted up, and noisily left Moorpark, leaving it quiet and empty, like it was before we barreled in.
It was misty and cool, and as this was my first real experience riding in a large group, I focused on keeping the pace and the interval, only to find myself turning into a subdivision, lemming-like, following the pack, until a knowledgeable rider wildly gesticulated to the other few hundred of us to stay on the main road! Soon enough, however, I quickly adjusted to the "feel" of a big ride, and I really loved it. The hook was really sinking in to my cheek now....
Some observations from the trip to Ojai: the "snake" of hundreds of headlights behind me...the smell of 2-stroke racing bikes in front of me; Old guys on new bikes, young guys on old bikes; orange groves; twistys toward a quarry in the hills; the smell of raw petroleum oozing out of the ground ( for those environmentalists in the crowd..it's NATURAL! we're talking southern California here!); smells of fresh hay and horse manure; a veritable sea of different motorcycles, but the acute rarity of the Harley Davidson crowd; the incredible beauty of the foothills of California, where NORCAL meets SOCAL; planes landing in Santa Paula; dual feelings of camaraderie and independence (hook is really deep in the cheek...man this is fun); all finishing with a mass arrival in Ojai at the Guy Webster/Mike Taggart museum.
I was wondering how to top a ride with hundreds of classic, beautifully restored bikes, until I walked into the museum's Italian wing.
A small corner was fully stocked with tools, books, a compressor, etc, the perfect "garage" we all want in our homes, and all around me, in every square inch of space, was motorcycles and cars. That in and of itself is overwhelming, but it got better.
The real magic came from the details: carburetors, shocks, tires, fenders, decals. Every part in perfect, original condition. Valve rockers on the outside, flywheels right next to your boot, A tidal wave of history, numerous racing machines in stock condition, immaculate paint jobs on motorcycles that you could picture on a track somewhere in Italy or here, 30, 40, 50 years ago...I could see the tools and the smell the grease and petrol. I could hear the unintelligble sound of Italian, while racers and their mechanics talked to each other to squeeze more power, more speed, out of these bikes. It was what I liked most about the day; the journey back in time.
The new British wing seemed a bit more grounded in reality, not because those stories and memories weren't in the bikes, but probably because I was in sensory overload by that time. A small bookshelf with helmets, pictures, and various personal items made the collection more intimate, more personal. That, and along with a big ass RV in the room, I felt more like being in Mr. Webster's/Taggart's garage, vice a museum. An excellent way to view another mind-numbing collection of classic bikes.
I secretly was a bit envious of my neighbor Marc as he drooled over a CCM dirtbike in the corner, telling his wife Donna the complete history, mechanical theory, and the racing legacy of that particular model. His passion for these bikes, along with an encyclopedic knowledge of every detail, is something all us riders should strive for. Even if I can't remember the tire pressure for a 1956 BSA Road Rocket, I can appreciate the love and passion that generates that sort of detailed memory.
On our way back to the bikes, we stopped again at the Italian wing, and got to see the place with only a few souls still inside. As the doors were closing, and I snapped away, taking every picture I could, we met Guy and thanked him for the visit. I read an article about him, where he mentioned that he believed that this collection was only his temporarily, that someday it will belong to another, and another, and another. I hope that his prediction is accurate; and that the next owner is as generous with it as he has been.
Marc, Donna and I finished with a mexican lunch, and a visit to the Petroleum Museum in Santa Paula. A combination oil history and local firefighting museum, it was another fascinating trip in time, to the "there will be blood" days of oil, as well as a reminder of how oil is the economic engine of our time.
The trip was also an affirmation of the generosity of those who are wealthy, and a complete repudiation of the class warfare that now emanates from our government....at least for me, it was. The idea that such a collection could have been better offered by the State, or the Government, is simply ludicrous. Not that our government is advocating the wholesale confiscation of individual property.....yet.
So, yep, looking at someone else's excessive wealth, made me feel patriotic! God Bless America!
In the future, may we all have the freedom to buy as many BMWs and Moto-Guzzis as we want!Kurt Kohanowich, San Diego CA
