B
bobh41
Guest
I was young then.
Twenty-Three, living in Azusa, CA, riding a new Norton 750 Atlas Scrambler, restless; I determined to seek out a young beauty with whom I had suffered through an unfortunate misunderstanding. She had settled in El Paso. Thinking somehow that riding the Norton for a year in So Cal had improved my personality I set about launching a reprise of our relationship ÔÇô or at least settling the matter so I could concentrate on the rest of my life. I left my job, gave my car to my sister, dumped the little junk I had accumulated and packed everything I owned on the back of the bike in an AF flight bag, with enough tools to almost overhaul the Norton in an AWOL bag on top.
I had carefully studied the maps and figured some of the 1965 era gas stops exceeded the approximate 75-mile range of my 2-1/2 gallon tank, so I tied a full 2-gallon jerry can on the back with thin nylon rope. Well, I had good luck; the ÔÇ£last gas for 100 milesÔÇØ sign failed to show up. Highway 10 was under construction much of the way. I idled along, bouncing over dirt roads through Phoenix along with hundreds of motorists. My campout consisted of an old Army blanket and a couple of packs of cigarettes. I spent a night a couple of miles off on a Jeep trail in Apache territory lying under the stars with my helmet and face shield on to ward off the mosquitoes. I had never before seen sky quite like that ÔÇô clear, bright and endless. The next morning I rode the bike to the first caf?® I ran into and had breakfast.
The first thing I did in El Paso was rent a room in an obscure little motel outside of town, and got cleaned up and began my search for my dream girl. She was completely forgiving, very interested in the Norton and suggested we take it up to a nice little mountain retreat in Alamogordo she knew of. She hiked up her skirt and piled on behind me on the bike, squeezing between me and the flight bag and off we went.
About 40 miles out of town the engine sputtered briefly and died. I rolled to a stop on the desolate road, with nothing in view but hot May desert terrain. I should have gassed up in El Paso, but didnÔÇÖt ÔÇô nevertheless with complete confidence and assurance to my young lady that everything was in order, I stepped around to the back of the bundle to untie the gas can only to discover that the tight nylon rope had sawn through the metal can because of the vibration and bouncing, and the fuel had completely evaporated.
Well, thatÔÇÖs the story, but to complete it, I had determined a few years previously in my motorcycling style to never ever leave a bike unattended on the highway, so I began to push the bike to wherever I needed to go. As we came to a rise I could see a village a few miles off and was intent on pushing it there. A family in an RV came along after about a half-hour and filled up the tank for me. We proceeded on our way and had a memorable stay in Alamogordo.
Twenty-Three, living in Azusa, CA, riding a new Norton 750 Atlas Scrambler, restless; I determined to seek out a young beauty with whom I had suffered through an unfortunate misunderstanding. She had settled in El Paso. Thinking somehow that riding the Norton for a year in So Cal had improved my personality I set about launching a reprise of our relationship ÔÇô or at least settling the matter so I could concentrate on the rest of my life. I left my job, gave my car to my sister, dumped the little junk I had accumulated and packed everything I owned on the back of the bike in an AF flight bag, with enough tools to almost overhaul the Norton in an AWOL bag on top.
I had carefully studied the maps and figured some of the 1965 era gas stops exceeded the approximate 75-mile range of my 2-1/2 gallon tank, so I tied a full 2-gallon jerry can on the back with thin nylon rope. Well, I had good luck; the ÔÇ£last gas for 100 milesÔÇØ sign failed to show up. Highway 10 was under construction much of the way. I idled along, bouncing over dirt roads through Phoenix along with hundreds of motorists. My campout consisted of an old Army blanket and a couple of packs of cigarettes. I spent a night a couple of miles off on a Jeep trail in Apache territory lying under the stars with my helmet and face shield on to ward off the mosquitoes. I had never before seen sky quite like that ÔÇô clear, bright and endless. The next morning I rode the bike to the first caf?® I ran into and had breakfast.
The first thing I did in El Paso was rent a room in an obscure little motel outside of town, and got cleaned up and began my search for my dream girl. She was completely forgiving, very interested in the Norton and suggested we take it up to a nice little mountain retreat in Alamogordo she knew of. She hiked up her skirt and piled on behind me on the bike, squeezing between me and the flight bag and off we went.
About 40 miles out of town the engine sputtered briefly and died. I rolled to a stop on the desolate road, with nothing in view but hot May desert terrain. I should have gassed up in El Paso, but didnÔÇÖt ÔÇô nevertheless with complete confidence and assurance to my young lady that everything was in order, I stepped around to the back of the bundle to untie the gas can only to discover that the tight nylon rope had sawn through the metal can because of the vibration and bouncing, and the fuel had completely evaporated.
Well, thatÔÇÖs the story, but to complete it, I had determined a few years previously in my motorcycling style to never ever leave a bike unattended on the highway, so I began to push the bike to wherever I needed to go. As we came to a rise I could see a village a few miles off and was intent on pushing it there. A family in an RV came along after about a half-hour and filled up the tank for me. We proceeded on our way and had a memorable stay in Alamogordo.
