| Rick Long's Stories |
| April 10, 2008 |
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| The following story involves three perspectives of the same ride from three different authors. It is a bit longer than my other stories but worth the effort. Enjoy. –Rick Long Riding the Bronson Road by Rick Long In 1969, the war in Vietnam was in full tilt. Unrest over the rising death toll and mandatory military service was rampant throughout the country. Civil Rights was still a hot topic of dispute in the Old South. And I was turning 13 years old. Also that year, a television series entitled, "Then Came Bronson" made its’ debut. The program starred Michael Parks whose character, Jim Bronson, traveled the country on a Harley-Davidson Sportster motorcycle. Most episodes involved Bronson riding into town, righting wrongs or saving a damsel in distress, and getting kissed just prior to heading off into the sunset. In the face of what was happening in the country at that time, and what happens in the mind of 13 year old boys, this looked like a pretty sweet way to live life. I would sit mesmerized in front of the television each week as Bronson rode to far off places I could only visit in my dreams. I can remember my heart dropping out of my chest the next year when I discovered the series had been cancelled. My memories of the show would have to suffice and I vowed to one day ride the roads Bronson traveled just as he did, on a Harley Sportster. Since the show only ran one year, just 26 episodes, it has almost never aired as a rerun. Sometime in the '80's, Turner Broadcasting ran a few episodes in the middle of the night. I managed to catch about six on tape. I got them out the other day and watched them again. Now in my 50's, the kissing part is still interesting but the travel is what stands out most. I'm watching the scenery in the background thinking, "That looks like Wyoming. I was there just two summers ago for a motorcycle rally." In another episode, I'm finding, "He's in Colorado now. I was through there on the bike while traveling to the mid-west for a rally." The credits role as Bronson rides along side the Sawtooth Mountains in southern Idaho. Yep, been there. Rode that same stretch of highway with my wife while on the way to Spokane, Washington for yet another rally. I guess I've been riding the Bronson road for years and didn't quite realize it at the time. One important scene eluded me though. The opening montage of the show ends with an aerial shot of Bronson riding on a tall mist-shrouded bridge across a mountain gorge. "How very cool," I thought when I was 13. "I wish I could ride that same bridge someday." With the Internet, no question seems to go unanswered. A two-minute Google search will help you find that the bridge in question is the Bixby Bridge located along California’s Highway 1, the Pacific Coast Highway, just north of Big Sur and south of Carmel-by-the-Sea. Also at issue was the fact that despite having owned 10 motorcycles over the 38 years since I first watched Bronson ride, I had yet to buy a Sportster. That problem was resolved in late November of 2006 when a gently-used bright orange XL883R came into my life. It was love at first sight, as they say, and we began to make some miles and smiles together. In March of '07, my wife surprised me by planning a secret trip for my birthday that also included our best riding friend, Tom Livaudais. "Pack the bike for a long weekend and dress warm," were her only instructions to me. As we headed in a northwesterly direction out of southern California, I guessed our destination. At San Luis Obispo, we began traveling north along the Pacific Cost Highway (PCH). There are many beautiful roads along the Bronson trail but none are more beautiful that the PCH in the late afternoon. Photographers will talk about the "Golden Hour" that refers to early morning or late afternoon light, when the sunlight gives everything it touches a golden glow. Such was the light that evening as we made our way to Big Sur for an overnight cabin stay. The next morning, a short ride north and the bridge comes into view around a bend in the road. There are precious few moments in life that equal the realization of a 38-year dream. There's the sign that confirms that yes, in deed, this is the "Historic Bixby Bridge" built in 1932. Now I'm on the bridge and my Sportster hums along, sure footed, tracking the lane almost as if it was destined to follow this path. There is a turnout just north of the bridge where visitors can stop and take photographs of the structure and its’ beautiful surroundings. A stone block sits beside the edge of the bridge as if the builders knew people would want to sit and gaze at the wonder of this engineering feat. There is so much that can be said about the moments I sat by the bridge but a few simple words can be used to sum it all up: the bridge and I are still here, we have met, and we have vowed to meet again. Each of us will do what we can to survive weather, time, and fate in our own way. I expect to pass that way again and I like to think the bridge looks forward to that time as I do. With each Bronson fan that pays a visit, the legend of the bridge is preserved and its historic worth reinforced. Long may she stand tall. There's a line in a Dan Fogelberg song called "The Neatherlands" that says, "Where do you go when you get to the end of your dream?" Such was the question posed by my wife and Tom after an hour of photos and conversation at the Bixby Bridge. A quick look at the map and there was only one answer: "Hollister." A couple of hours east of the Bixby Bridge lies another iconic vision of motorcycle history called "Johnny's Bar and Grill" where in 1946, Life magazine documented a clash between local law enforcement and a motorcycle gang known as the "Booze Fighters." The event even made its way onto the silver screen in a movie adaptation called “The Wild One” starring Marlon Brando. Johnny’s is a small place but full of history and motorcycle riding patrons. We found a table, had a good ole' American hamburger, and got to meet the bar's owner. It's doesn't get any better than that at Johnny's. As if all that wasn't enough, that evening we attended a showing of "Wild Hogs," the motorcycle-themed comedy movie about four guys on a road trip. Cool to have seen the movie while on a road trip with friends! Again, it doesn't get any better than that. The next day was to have been our last day on the road but my riding partners had other plans. East toward Yosemite was their goal. We traveled through a beautiful wildlife preserve along the way and saw red-winged black birds, pheasant, and ducks. The roads in Yosemite should have been closed to motorcycles but we pressed on. Through the western entrance and around to the southern exit we traversed slush, mud, and muck of all sorts. You know you are riding dangerously when you find yourself seeking out the sandy parts of the road in order to get better traction, the parts you would usually avoid like the plague as slippery and precarious any other time. Our dinner in Oakhurst that evening was the finest barbeque I’ve ever tasted. Monday morning found us finally heading home. Theresa signaled a countdown with her fingers just north of San Bernardino as we reached the one thousand mile mark for this journey. There are many roads left to travel in life and many riding friends to travel beside but I expect none to be better than those experienced on this adventure. Four Perfect Days By Theresa Long As I looked out on the falling snow, a slight panic washed over me like a hand shadowing burning eyes from the sun. Two days. That’s all there was between us and canceling the trip. As cold and cloudy as it was then, soon I would see that all my fear was for naught. Like the hero showing up to save the day, Friday morning dawned clear and beautiful. Chasing away all thoughts that the trip might be suddenly called on account of inclement weather, the dawn was spectacular, crisp, and clear. Still, after a late night of birthday celebration and packing, 4:30AM came too early even if it heralded a beautiful day. As the final bits of gear were stowed on the bikes and we mounted our steeds, a chill of excitement hit me. This was no simple bike ride…this was an adventure. This trip had been planned as a secret trip for Rick’s birthday. Knowing how much he loved “Then Came Bronson” as a kid and how much he had always wanted to ride over the bridge depicted in the opening credits, my friend Tom and I had planned a trip to do just that. Many folks were invited to share this experience, but as often happens when the rubber met the road, there were just us three. With only one long motorcycle trip under my belt and this being the first such trip for Tom, Rick was the most experienced road captain. But since he didn’t know where he was going, it was pretty embarrassing that I had to ask Rick how to get to the 210 Freeway so we could begin our journey. Destination: Big Sur California SR1 must be God’s own highway. The beauty witnessed from each twist and turn on this magnificent road can only be described as a religious experience. Majestic cliffs overhanging water so blue as to be declared the color to which all other blues are compared. As fate would have it, we passed through SR1 at the time of day photographers’ love; the early evening just as the sun begins to set. The warm glow of sunset made the scene, already lovely, even more breathtaking. Without the time to stop and fill my lens with the beauty before me on this trip, I could only vow to repeat it sometime in the near future. One thing you learn quickly about road trips is that the flexibility of the people traveling together is directly proportional to how enjoyable you find the trip. As we pulled into the Big Sur campground it was already freezing cold and enveloped in a darkness that can only be found on a mountain top, surrounded by trees. The road to the cabin we had rented for the night was not only impossible to locate, but also covered in mud and tree chaff. Our Harley’s got their first taste of what it feels like to be a dirt bike that night but it would not be their last. The night passed uneventful except for the ghost that mysteriously toyed with the fireplace poker, rocking it back and forth all night long, and the heater that baked the hallway separating our sleeping quarters while leaving the rest of mobile home posing as a cabin somewhat cooler. Morning dawned and although Rick had figured out the destination even before our first lunch stop, we eagerly made our escape back onto the open rode in search of the Bixby Bridge and the fulfillment of a boyhood dream. A quick breakfast and fuel up at Ripplewood Resort and we were off. Big Sur is only about 14 miles from the Bixby Bridge and before we knew it the structure loomed large in front of us. Knowing this would be a structure of interest, the builders of road and bridge kindly provided a large turn out on the northern end of the bridge for the benefit of the many who would ogle its’ architecture and trespass upon its surface. This concrete bridge is one of five historic bridges that connect SR1 and allow the multitude of travelers egress from the southern most point in Morro Bay all the way to San Francisco. After some pictures were made to document the moment, and a private moment of thoughtful contemplation, we were off again, this time with no real destination in mind. The cool thing about having no destination in mind is that there is no pressure to get there. For the rest of the trip, the destination was decided on the fly, in a café in Santa Barbara, at Starbucks in Los Banos, or standing in the parking lot of the motel with the HOG map guide, tracing possible routes without a care as to where we ended up. Some roads were decided upon by necessity and some were the happy result of a chance meeting and recommendation, like the one provided by a friendly old fellow at the car wash in Los Banos. So as the days turned into nights, we found ourselves riding across parts of California that we never knew existed and realizing that within this state there is a cross section of climates and environments to suit any need. On the third day we had to decide if we were coming home or wanted to extend the trip one more day…but I don’t really think it was a decision, more like a formality. While on the road to Merced for a quick breakfast at Sonic, we crossed a wildlife refuge with dozens of different species of birds and field after swampy field of landscape that I am told looks just like places in Arkansas and Louisiana. In Merced a new destination was decided on and after mounting up once more we made our way to Yosemite National Park. There are few sites in the world as inspiring as El Capitan. The sheer cliffs rise up like a goliath in the midst of a natural water park only God could create. Waterfalls and running water abounded and snow covered most of the landscape all around us. The roads were all wet with patches of ice and slush and we found that Harleys are can be multipurpose vehicles when the need arises. After a brief but beautiful tour of the park interior we made our way out of the park on Highway 41 in search of Fresno. After many miles of icy highway we finally dropped out of the park and into Oakhurst where we spent the final night of the trip. Oakhurst offered the finest food we had encountered on the trip so far. A rib joint just down from the hotel provided us with a delicious meal and a great experience before the final leg of the journey began the next morning. As morning came upon us we packed the bikes, got a quick bite to eat, and set out for home. Several hard hours of riding punctuated with a few gas stops and we were pulling into the garage by 6:30PM. We were all tired, sore, and a bit bedraggled, but we were happier than any of us had been in a while. Freedom of the open road indeed. Three Harleys and a Bridge By Tom Livaudais As night began to fall on the Long family farm in Arkansas, Rick, a young boy of thirteen inched up to the television to watch his favorite show, “Then Came Bronson.” Each episode began with Michael Parks, Bronson, stopped at a red light and the guy in the station wagon next to him striking up a conversation with the words, "Taking a trip?" Bronson, not hearing the man clearly, asks, "What's that?", and the guy repeats the question, to which Bronson replies, "Yeah." Guy: "Where to?" Bronson: "Oh, I don't know. Wherever I end up, I guess." Guy: "Pal, I wish I was you." Bronson, "Really?" Guy, sadly: "Yeah." Bronson: "Well, hang in there." The guy nods, the light changes, Bronson rides off, and the theme music starts, with title and main character credits rolling, as he heads down along the California coast, detouring briefly along the surf, and, as the intro theme fades, he crosses over the mist-shrouded Bixby Bridge just north of Big Sur. Young Rick dreamed that one day he too would ride a motorcycle across that bridge in the Central Coast of California; just like Bronson. I am fortunate enough to work with Theresa Long, Rick’s wife of 14 years. I had just bought my first motorcycle, a 2006 Harley Davidson 1200 Custom. Theresa and Rick owned BMWs at the time so she would often give me advice and help on rides and equipment. Soon we were all going out on Friday nights and low and behold they both bought new Harley Sportsters. They introduced me to the Chaparral Riders and our friendship grew as we began to ride together on the weekends. Theresa told me of their custom of Secret Trips; where one of them planned a special trip without the other knowing anything about the destination. They were only told how to pack: hot or cold and how many days. Once they were on their way guessing could begin on their destination. Theresa wanted to plan a special trip for Rick’s birthday and the idea came up of Rick’s boyhood dream…..riding across the Bixby Bridge. After watching stormy and frigid weather reports all week, on Thursday the clouds parted and the sun shone warm and clear. We loaded the bikes with our luggage and headed west on I-10 to the 210, then 110 and straight into Santa Barbara, but not before stopping along the way for breakfast and a pee-stop. Over pancakes, eggs, bacon, and hot coffee Theresa let Rick make his first guess. “Does it begin with a “B?” was his first utterance. We all laughed, finished breakfast and were on our way. He knew. After Santa Barbara we headed toward Solvang, a small Danish-styled town just north over the mountains, with a short detour to Cold Springs Tavern off Hwy 157. Cold Springs was a stop for stage coaches in the late 1800s and now offers travelers cold beer in the tavern and steaks in the old restaurant. We reconnected with 101 outside Solvang and headed north and turning on to PCH and along the cliffs of the central coast. The ecosystem had changed from a wintry brown to bright green hills, tall trees and salt-misted ocean air. Something else changed that I wasn’t expecting. I wasn’t alone anymore; there were other people who cared about what I had to offer. Only this time I wasn’t offering what was good for me, but what was good another. I wanted this trip to be what the thirteen year old boy dreamed of. As I followed behind Rick, I could see him leaning into the many hair pin turns along the Pacific Coast Highway, the dips, up hills, and dropping through the steep declines. With the cold damp evening air sneaking into the openings of my jacket and gloves I could feel the warmth of seeing someone else’s dream come true. The three Harleys glided along the narrow winding road next to the shear cliffs that dropped into the pounding surf of the Pacific Ocean. We pushed our handle bars right as we leaned into a hard right turn. After standing the bike up again, a modest piece of architecture and engineering drifted under the wheels of our bikes. This was it: the Bixby Bridge, the dream bridge and the destination we anticipated. As far as bridges go, it was average; not very long, in need of paint and repair. I wasn’t really impressed, after-all in my home town of New Orleans, there are cantilevered steel-through-truss bridges crossing the Mississippi River that are 800 feet long and sit 135 feet above the torrent muddy waters. Theresa took photographs as Rick crossed the bridge in the style of his hero rider Bronson. When we were ready to leave Rick walked to the edge of the cliff and the north end of the bridge and muttered something inaudible to the rest of us, but we some how understood. With leather jackets zipped up, helmets and gloves fastened we started the bikes, rolled the throttles and left Bixby Bridge behind. I didn’t even look in the rear view mirror as I accelerated out of lower gears. It wasn’t my dream so I had no reason to say good bye. But as we thundered up the coast toward Monterey, Bixby Bridge began to ignite a warm sensation in my chest and settle into what would become memories. Not in pictures but instead in feelings. So for Rick, there is a bridge he can cross back to boyhood dreams and adventure, but for me the Bixby Bridge represents the passage from one life into another. A transition from what was life before a divorce after a 28 year marriage and three children, to after my divorce. It is life before the Bixby Bridge and life after. I can go on, I can be happy, and life is worth living anew because I have friends. It isn’t the bikes or the road that so many stories seem to center on but the people along the way that by simply being there and accepting me into their lives makes life an adventure. So what is a bridge from youth to adulthood for one man ends up being a bridge from one life to another for me. And when I stop at a red light and a guy in a mini van next to me strikes up a conversation with the words, "Taking a trip?" I’ll reply "Yeah." Guy: "Where to?" Me: "Oh, I don't know. Wherever I end up, I guess." Guy: "Pal, I wish I was you." Me "Really?" Guy, sadly: "Yeah." Me: "Well, hang in there, I did and am glad I did." |