Los Angeles to the Kern River

Day one from Los Angeles to the Kern River

We landed in Los Angeles a little after eight, collected our bags and reached EagleRider just after nine. Our motorcycles were waiting outside with our names taped to the windshields. With a full day’s ride ahead, we were eager to get loaded and underway.

A computer glitch held up my contract, so I started loading the bike while they sorted out the paperwork. Getting all four of us checked in took about an hour and a half. It was a slow start to an already long day.

We had barely started moving when sunlight flashed across my windshield and revealed how badly it was scratched. The coating was damaged, and the curved areas distorted the view. Every time the light caught it at the wrong angle, the road became harder to see.

I told the others to go ahead and turned back. I knew our next waypoint and could see Jeremy's location on my phone, so catching them should have been straightforward.

I asked EagleRider to swap the motorcycle or replace the windshield. They declined both. I was told that was how Harley made them and that another windshield would not fit. I disagreed, but I was also conscious of the time. After years of renting from them, I was disappointed with the response. I left with the same windshield and the thought that I would figure something out.

While I was back at the rental agency, the others had trouble of their own. Cars cut Dale off approaching a freeway exit, and he missed it. Getting separated in heavy traffic can put pressure on a rider to make a bad decision trying to stay with the group. Thankfully, Dale is levelheaded enough to keep going and sort it out. Peter and Jeremy had stopped to regroup with him, although I didn’t know that yet.

Back underway, I had navigation running to our waypoint and Jeremy’s location. Within minutes I noticed he was not moving. Then Find My, the iPhone app I was using to follow Jeremy’s location, stopped updating. At freeway speed, that was an instant dose of frustration. I found a place to pull over under an overpass in an inactive construction area and called Peter. Between a misunderstanding about where they were and my phone needing a reboot, I spent several minutes waiting for people who were already ahead of me.

Once Jeremy's location came back, I could see where they were. I asked Peter to stay put with Jeremy and rode over to meet them at a Hercules burger place. They were trying to get Dale back to us. It was already hot, and this wasn’t quite the start we’d had in mind.

A few minutes later, Dale appeared, as only Dale can. I’m not sure he could get lost forever. Now all four of us were together again.

There was still a lot of Los Angeles between us and the mountains. We had agreed not to lane split because most of our group was unfamiliar with it, so we worked through the traffic. Seeing the San Gabriel Mountains sign finally made it feel as though the trip had begun.

On Angeles Crest Highway, the road tightened, and the windshield became a problem again. Trying to judge the pavement and curves through that distortion, I had a moment of, “Fuck this shit. It’s not worth it. I ought to just go home.”

But I wasn’t ready to give up on the trip. I decided to roll with it a little longer.

Angeles Crest was a disappointment to me that day. The pavement was below what I had expected, and the mountains felt extremely arid. I can’t separate my impression of the road from how aggravated I was while riding it.

We continued north on Angeles Forest Highway, heading toward Palmdale.

As we dropped toward Palmdale, the heat became a real concern. We stopped to hydrate along the way, then continued to Blackbird Airpark. We knew it would be closed but hoped to photograph some of the aircraft through the fence. With no shade and few places where we felt comfortable stopping, we got a few photos and decided lunch somewhere cool was a better idea.

We backtracked a few miles to a Subway. I put my motorcycle in the shade on the sidewalk outside a neighboring business that was closed. I figured I would rather be asked to move it than return to a bike that had been baking in the sun.

After we’d eaten, I asked the manager for a bucket of water. No ice, just room-temperature water. He obliged, and I soaked my base layer before putting my riding jacket back on. I’d used this approach in dry desert heat before. With air moving through the vents, it could feel almost like air conditioning until the shirt dried out. It was a soggy start, but a trade I was happy to make.

Our next destination was the Kern River country, but first we had to cross more of the desert. We used Bealville as a waypoint to steer us out of the Mojave and toward higher ground. At one point the motorcycle’s temperature display showed 117 degrees. I have no independent record of that and no idea how accurate the gauge was. I do know it felt every bit that hot.

At a gas stop, I soaked my shirt again. We were all feeling the heat by then. Dale looked particularly worn down and, as I recall, went inside the convenience store to cool off.

As traffic thinned and we gained some elevation, the ride improved. The sun was mostly behind me now, giving me some relief from the windshield. We rode through Keene and Bealville and continued toward Lake Isabella. I reminded myself that sometimes, to do epic shit, you have to put up with some misery getting there. We had five days of riding through places most people never get to experience from a motorcycle. At least that was how I was rationalizing it.

Riding through the Kern River Canyon, I remember seeing the river and even commenting on how beautiful it was. But by then, managing the heat, the aggravation with the windshield and feeling unsettled by the day had taken up most of my attention. I wasn’t appreciating the country I was riding through as much as I’d have liked. That’s the harsh truth.

In the town of Lake Isabella, we stopped at a Taco Bell for cold drinks and a little time in the air conditioning. We still had Kernville and the lodge ahead of us, so we also worked out where to have dinner.

Earlier in the day, a hard hit from a dip or pothole had bottomed Dale’s suspension and jolted his back. At the Taco Bell stop, he lay beside his motorcycle, stretching and trying to get some relief. Dale is tough as nails and doesn’t make much of a fuss. He said he was fine, but I was still concerned. Getting there mattered less than making sure we were all doing okay along the way.

From there, we continued alongside Lake Isabella toward Kernville. The lake was pretty, but many of the places to pull over involved dirt, gravel or awkward slopes. Wrestling a loaded touring motorcycle onto an off-camber overlook takes some of the spontaneity out of photography.

Dinner at the brewery in Kernville was a pleasant surprise. Maybe it was the long day or the heat, but it was a damn good meal.

After dinner, we still had the ride north along the Kern River to Corral Creek Lodge. It was getting dark by the time we headed out. The road followed one turn after another on pavement I would grade C-minus. The headlights showed the road immediately ahead, but little of what lay beside it. Much of it had no useful shoulder. What shoulder existed was rocky or soft, hardly somewhere I wanted to put a heavy motorcycle if I needed to stop.

We took our time and gave the road the respect it deserved. At the lodge, we agreed to be rolling at seven the next morning so we could backtrack into Kernville for breakfast. The lodge didn’t serve any, and there was little ahead for some distance. Peter and I were sharing a room, but I don’t remember much conversation. After a shower, I was asleep within minutes of lying down.