The Ride Through Time

Historic Route 66

Saturday, February 1, 2003

By Frank Colver

Was the weather perfect? You be the judge – temperature starting from a nippy morning then climbing slowly up into the low eighties, plus a high, thin, gray overcast to cut the intensity of the sun’s rays, along with light wind. That was Saturday, February first, 2003, the day of the SoCal Chapter “Mother Road Ride” in the Mojave Desert.

A few of the “hard core” showed up at the Ludlow Motel for this ride through time on the “Mother Road”, Old historic Route 66. Ludlow has one ten-room motel, a café, a Dairy Queen, and two gas stations. At this point Interstate 40 leaves Route 66 and they don’t come back together again for about seventy-five miles.

There was Joe Perry who traveled the farthest from the Fresno area bringing his ‘78 triumph, 500cc twin. Erhard and Judy Hirschfelder with their WW2 vintage Zundapp sidecar rig. Jim Faulk with - what else – a beautiful BMW twin. Tom Lovejoy with his Indian Scout 45 of various ‘30’s vintages and myself with my newly acquired ‘52 Norton ES2, 500cc single.

The first “discovery” that the “hard core” made was that Ludlow is a “dry” town and no beer or other libations were to be had for the bench riding at the end of the day. Fortunately I brought enough Ale with me to pass around that evening while celebrating a great day of riding.

The plan was to ride historic Route 66 starting from Ludlow California to the town of Essex - almost a “ghost town” - sixty-one miles away, and then ride back to Ludlow where there is food, fuel, and lodging. There would be no gas or food available on the route we were taking and our speed would be kept in the mellow range. This portion of the old highway swings miles away from the Interstate that replaced it and most of the once thriving businesses and homes that it served have been boarded up and left to the desert wind.

On the way, our first stop would be the nearly abandoned town of Amboy where I had thought that there was no food or gas available. However while checking out the old buildings we discovered that there was a café that would open if the owner detected the presence of customers. We assured him that we would stop for a late lunch on the way back so that he would stay open. The fuel was a different story however. He had gas pumps in front of the café but they were “temporarily” out of gas. A condition I suspect is not unusual in Amboy. Since we did not have the luxury of a trouble truck on this run, we were counting on the fuel cans carried on the Zundapp rig to insure our return to Ludlow on this 122-mile ride.

After lounging around Amboy and checking out the photos, with famous signatures, on the walls of Roy’s Café we started our machines and roared out of Amboy. A quarter mile down the road our roar became noticeably quieter when the Zundapp suddenly quit and drifted off into the desert sand never to roar again on this particular day. After much tinkering with the magneto we decided to push the bike back to Amboy where Erhard and Judy could rest in the shade while we continued on the ride. Tom and Erhard did most of the pushing while the rest of us provided excellent supervision. Well, all except for Jim, who was still merrily on his way down the road, oblivious to our situation back in Amboy. The plan: On our return, later in the day, Jim would ride Erhard back to Ludlow on his BMW while the rest of us kept Judy and ourselves company.

Once the survivors were back on the road it suddenly dawned on us that our mobilized gas supply was now stationary in Amboy – we all had to make it back there on the gas in our tanks! No problemo senior.

The best way that I can think of to describe this ride would be to take a freeway and kick all of the cars and trucks off of it and turn it over to a few guys on old bikes. It was stretches of many miles of riding between sightings of a car. This lonely road gave us ample opportunities, as we rode, to enjoy the stark beauty of the desert landscape. Grand vistas broken by jagged mountain ranges enclosed us on both sides the whole way. The sun shining through a thin gray sky lent an eerie specter to the scene as we sped past the decaying remains of broken dreams, along the road that was once this nation’s lifeline for people seeking the California promise. The “Mother Road” in the Grapes of Wrath tale of the depression and the dust bowl.

When we got to our designated turn-around spot, the town of Essex, the only thing stirring was a few leaves on some sparse trees. There were signs of the existence of people here, however many of the buildings were in the slow process of being absorbed by the desert sand or carried off in the winds that can rake this country. Fortunately for us the wind was taking a day off. We hung around for a while and checked out some of the town’s old buildings. Tom rode through the back streets to see if any old relic trucks were lurking there. He reported – not much of anything there.

We were all happy to make it back to Amboy and the couple we had left behind – they seemed well rested now. As we wolfed down “Route 66” Double Patty Cheeseburgers in Roy’s Café we were discussing our fuel supply resting out there in the sidecar of the Zundapp. Just then some very sad looking late model Harley riders pulled up to the empty gas pumps. It seems that they were planning to get gas here on their ride from Las Vegas to Twenty-nine Palms. Now they would be stuck here, one of them was already running on fumes.

We felt very sorry for them. We decided that since we were riding these grand old bikes, that could run forever on fumes, we - or rather Erhard and Judy - would give them the gas in the Zundapp. We sent them on their way while we tried to keep a positive attitude about or own chances of getting back to civilization – if one can call Ludlow that.

Erhard left with Jim on the Beamer and we settled in for a pleasant stay under a tree in Amboy awaiting his return with the truck and trailer for the Zundapp. The beautiful weather made this one of those days that makes a person glad to be alive. It would be a crime to be inside a building on a day like this.

After we loaded their rig into the trailer, Joe, Tom, and myself headed off on our final leg of the ride back to Ludlow with very little gas showing in our tanks. As the sun was about to go behind the mountains I reached the outskirts of town. When I pulled away from the only stop sign on seventy-five miles of Route 66 and headed into the parking lot of our motel, my Norton started to run rough. I knew then that I must have just barely made it back. The next day I drained the gas from the tank and the float bowl – it all amounted to a grand total of, ¾ of a cup!

That evening after a lot of reliving the great ride we had, Jim, plus Erhard and Judy loaded up and headed home. Tom, Joe and I drank some more ale while we continued to bench ride and talk of the unique riding the ghosts of old Highway 66 provide for some guys on old bikes. You could almost hear their voices above the thumping sound of ancient iron engines.