Cycle News - Archive Issues - 1990's

the tree is actually another historic part of the Mojave Road, a sort of desert wishing well where passers-by are able to insert a penny into the aluminum brew cans that are hung in it and make a wish. Jones insisted on getting a photo whilst Rousseau dug through the 58 pockets in his riding jacket, looking for a penny. It was at about that time that Hain wished out loud that we would pick up the pace. Jones retaliated by wishing aloud that Hain would shut up, and Freeman sat back with a g.rin, secretly hoping to witness the "new" last gunfight in the Mojave Desert. Photos completed, we saddled up and got moving again, carving through about five miles of serpentine two track before once ,!gain connecting with the chase truck long enough to gas up, have Hain jump in the truck and Gunter get back on a bike, and we were outta there. Hooking onto Cedar Canyon Road took the group toward another cutoff with a wide, gnarly sand wash - known as Watson Wash - that ultimately led us another 10 miles, on past a seepage between two huge slabs of rock. The area is known as Rock Springs. Continue another two miles west and you will run into a windmill that is seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The area is known as Government Holes, and it was here that the last "old west" gun- , fight in the Mojave took place between Matt Burts and J.W. "Bill" Robinson on (Left) Kinney "Thinking Man" Jones takes a break at the Soda Dry Lake Monument. (Above) Submarining in Afton Canyon, a little more than an hour from our final destination..• Bummer. ovember 8,1925. Both were, appropriately enough, gunfighters. And one can only guess that it was in the spirit of keeping things all even that both men died in the fight, which ultimately broke out because of rumors that Robinson had been hired to kill Burts. Leaving Government Holes and continuing 10 or so miles, we turned north toward Nippton and rode another 12 miles before reaching perhaps the most interesting waypoint on the Mojave Road. It is simply called the Mail Box on the Mojave Road, although it doesn't receive much mail. Instead, inside the dingy, rust-colored box you will find a journal that is to be signed by every traveler on the route. You can leave your name, the date at which you passed the box, the number of vehicles in your party, road conditions, and there's even a space to record your impressions of your journey on the Mojave Road. Then, every so often, the journal is replaced by new one, with the old one being analyzed by the Friends of the Mojave Road and the BLM to help them in determining the best course of action to keep the route passable with minimal impact to the environment. Imagine that. Reading the messages left by others White Brothers Yamaha WR420F Getting White Bt:otbers to coJtUllit a motorcycle fM our little dez.,fest was at 0IlCe the easiest and most difficu.lt task of the whole program. To be sure, the folks at the giant aftermarket parts distributor had the ideal machine, former AMA 250cc National MX Champion Gary Jones' personal Yamaha WRaF - so named because of the WB42Oa: piston kit that upped the displacement &om the stodrer. The trouble was that this paticular radical ride was ~ be displayed at the big motmcycle aftermarket trade show in ID.dianapolis, and it needed a piston, and the chances of getting the bike ready in time for our ride seemed all but impossible. So after telling us "No," Jones and White Brothen' Dave Novick SUlfQsed us by roBing up to the CN offices wi1h the bi1Qe in the back of the company box van on the Monday that we were scheduled to leave. Two thiDgs immediately struck us when we saw the WR: First, it was. about the trickest-looldng IIIOloKycle that we had ever seen in tmy category; and second, it was definitely a rolling display of the awesome plethora of parts contained. ~ the pages of the White BlOthas off-road catalog. The bike bristled with stronger and lighter Talon Ultralite hubs and Excel rims, the complete package of DSP carbon-fiber covers and protectors and guards, Fasttine brake lines, Braking rotors, T~G bars,l!fO ,handguards and plastic body panels, WB magnesIum top triple clamp and bar mounts. a BBR kickstarter ~d brake pedal, Talon Groovelite sprockets, IMS large-capaaty fuel tank, Baja Designs dual-sport kit, WB graphics and . seat kit, WB High-Boy headpipe and E Series megaphone/spark arrestor - and those were just some of things that we were able to see! Some of the hidden and even tricker items included completely revalved suspension, with Eibach springs controlling the boing in both the shock and fork, custom engine porting and flowing, and of course the White Brothers 420cc oversize kit. To top it aU off, the bike bristles with a complete set of WE titanium bolt kits for tile engine, chassis, and front-and-rear suspension. Despite its exotic looks and hypertweaking, the WR420's performance was surprisingly polished. The bike started easily, hot or cold, and horsepower was abundant - although not so pumped up as to destroy the character of the stock machine. One area where the White bike was a Iit6e belter than the FmeIine bike was in its jJedonNnce an the pavement; the wide-Iatio tranny hdped to tone down the ~ wail that was emit1ed from the E.-S6e exhaust. Correspondingiy, the bike didn't seem as thougII it to be ~ quite as hard off-road in order to keep up with the pack. Handling was equally as balanced, wi1h the bike's suspension setup probably being the best in the group. Everyone seemed to get comfortable on the machine immediately, whether they were ridillg it at lemtinal velocity 01' cow-trail speed. Regardless of the terrain, the White Brothers 420 was right on. Unfortunately, reliability was not the bike's strong suit on our trip, as it gave up the ghost at the start of the second day. The problem was later found out to be a blown rod bearing. That was no surprise, accordillg to Jones, who later admitted that the machine had been mercilessly torture-tested for SOllIe 8000 miles before we got hold of it. That said, we guess we'll reserve judgment on tile 420 kit. Besides, what kind of adventure would this have been if :s0meone hadn't experienced some kind of problem? Look, if you want a motorcycle that will last you through the apocalypse, then you don't want the White Brothers WR420F anyway. But if you are a WR400F owner looking to add some serious tricks to your off-roader, or just want the trickest ~ual-sport motorcycle on the planet, then call White Brothers or see your local WB dealer and have a look in their catalog. There's bound to be something in there that you can use to build your own dream machine.'!'""" ~--., could keep you entertained for hours, and we took some time to read the thoughts of a suprisingly high number of folks who had gone before us before firing up and rolling toward Cima Road. In spite of the setbacks and failures, we were close to the homestretch by 3 p.m.. But we weren't there yet, and it was easy to tell that we would soon be engaged in a race with the sun if we wanted to make Barstow before dark. When we got to Kelbaker Road, we made our final fuel stop, "MacGuyver" Jones· having once again .cleverly concealed several small fuel 'cans in the rocks just a few feet from the pavement. We were also met by the truck, with Marv unloading a cooler full of Subway sandwiches, which more than hocked a few of us back to reality, It was a funny feeling to realize that the desolation of the Mojave Road had taken over to the point that we no longer thought or cared about what was going on in the environment outside our own. The whole group was reduced to enjoying the spectacular scenery around uS as we bounded across the desert to whatever waypoint came next. No, it wasn't Zenlike. obody saw God or had a moment of clarity that changed their lives forever. City life, with its job pressures, human hassles and rush-hour discord, was an inevitability; Hoyer's early departure was proof enough of that. But suffice it to say that the rest of us were fully enveloped in the trek, some if only in the hope that it might end soon, others in the hope that it would never end. Motorcycles are wonderful devices that way. We were just south of Baker and had about 20 miles to go before we reached the Soda Dry Lake and the Soda National Monument. The silty access road that leads to the dry lake runs out onto a peninsula known as 17-Mile Point. It was just before here that Ray decided he was tired of eating dust from the racier members of our crew, so he set off early, making the perfect hare to our hounds. Palmer and Rousseau were the next two along, foUowed by the rest, who had spread out considerably to avoid riding through some of the worst dust that we had yet faced. Mile after mile, we chased Ray's dust cloud, which rose up from the lake in the distance. It seemed like we would never get there, but the silt was soon replaced by the alkali playa of the lakebed. One more word of caution is order here: Stay to the right of the posts that mark the rou te across the lakebed. It is designated as wilderness, and rumors a:bound regarding rangers who like to sit up on the mountain that overlooks the dry lake and keep an eye out for trespassers. Big tickee, no laundry. Smack dab in the middle of the lake is a rock pile that houses the Soda Dry Lake Monument. The pile is supposed to be increased by one rock for every 29

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