Superprestigio – LA to Vegas on a Clapped out 250cc
Well, it has been a couple of weeks since I went to Las Vegas for the inaugural Superprestigio of the Americas. I figured it’s time to recall my story before it gets lost in the abyss of my mind.
It started out innocently enough. The day after the Long Beach IMS I decided that I would ride to Las Vegas for the Superprestigio. My bike of choice was… my only running one – my 1980 Yamaha SR250. This little baby has been in action for a little over 10 years now. Before I gained ownership, it was set on fire, wheelied down a few streets, was disassembled to become someone’s “cafe” project, and had swallowed part of a valve.
Since I’ve owned it, I’ve changed the seat a couple of times. Always a hand-made one-off deal shaped out of scrap steel sheet I had lying around. I cobbled the latest seat pan out of some galvanized sheet I found behind a pallet. My brain ain’t so good now after welding on that stuff, but Ma’ says I’m still special. I raced it in the Hooligan Street Class at Del Mar this summer, so it needed 3 number plates. I also made one out of galvanized sheet (no welding)and the other 2 are fiberglass. It’s also been re-geared so that it can do 80mph on the Southern California freeways without vibrating apart.
So, I made all of the pre-flight checks that one would normally make before riding a clapped-out 250cc across the Cajon Pass into the desert. My little shit-brick (I haven’t named it yet, but Ast Llwyd comes to mind. I also have SPAM on the tank because it’s kind of like a cheap, generic alternative to the real thing- just like SPAM. Shit-brick will do for now) gets about 80ish miles to the gallon. I knew I would be able to get over there on 2 tanks, so all I had to do was decide where to stop. On the way there I stopped in Barstow and Nipton. That’s it.
Heading out on the 210 freeway, the traffic is usually pretty moderate and it lightens as you head east until you get to the hill that forms the Cajon Pass. This was the case on that Saturday, and aside from the wind, it was easy-going. Ooh dat wind, doh!!
I was starting to feel the effects of the wind buffeting my head and occasionally a gust would slap me and my bike, keeping us on our toes. Then a Cal-Trans sign appeared, it’s amber missive warning of high winds and strong gusts possible. No sooner had I read that, I immediately became aware of the invisible force trying to push me backward. At the junction of the 210 and the I-15 freeways, traffic was backed up, and I split lanes as a welcome reprieve from the wind.
The climb over the Cajon Pass usually gets pretty congested. You have some Semi-trailers making the climb at speeds in the teens, while other empty rigs are blowing by them as fast as their 18 wheels can go. They usually stay to the right lanes, which means that everyone else trying to make the merge and get around the rigs and motorhomes lumbering up the hill all scramble and vie for a spot in the “fast lanes”, which are now also clogged with these same people. I stayed in the middle and fought the headwinds all the way up.
Once you crest the Pass, it’s a free-for-all as gravity no longer factors into the speed one is limited to. In fact, it seems as though everyone is hell-bent on gaining back any time lost on the climb by exceeding the posted speed limits by at least 58mph. At this point, I got my ass over to the right and tried to stay out of the diesel rigs’ way as they employed the ‘Georgia Overdrive’ to it’s full capability.
Getting to Las Vegas was a slow venture. The wind was insane. I previously mentioned that I had geared my bike to do 80mph on the freeway, but that assumes no head wind or sustained long hills. Um, well, there were both lying in wait on my path to Las Vegas. The torque dropped off immediately after hitting gusts head on. My speedo fell to 60mph at full throttle. I’d drop a gear, get back up to 70, shift to 5th – BLLLLPPPPHHHHTT!!! Back down to sixty. My shitty little thumper engine had run out of gravy before the biscuit was eaten… (Ever hear that one!?) I was soon drafting and passing the aforementioned diesels and motorhomes, only to be passed again by them on the slightest down hill or long stretches on the windy flats.
The gusts were too much for my bike and I felt like I was riding a broomstick in traffic. A broomstick with a sail on it. I got down as far as I could and found the spot where the front number plate deflected the wind up over my head. I actually sped up a little, and my head wasn’t whipping around in the high-speed air. The second I started passing a semi however, the wind-shear from the front would stop me like an invisible tether.
I finally decided that if I could draft a truck that was traveling 70mph, that was all I needed. I wasn’t trying to set any speed records anyways, and the only reason to go faster was to stay out of peoples’ way. I played leapfrog with what appeared to be a large county line truck. He eventually won since I couldn’t cut through the wind he was creating, and I stayed in his wash for the rest of the journey into Vegas. He was going 70-75mph anyways, so, what the hell, right?
The Superprestigio was pretty amazing. The racing was tight, the track was odd, and the competition and camaraderie was outstanding. The mix of dust and racing gas in the air at the Orleans Arena was a pleasant change from the cigarette smoke that usually embeds itself in your clothes, hair, and every mucus membrane on your body. The Elvis impersonator that opened the show was a bit over the top and out-of-place, but it just wouldn’t be Vegas if it was any other way.
The next morning I woke up bright and early and headed back home. I stopped in Primm, not for gas, but for coffee. It was so fucking cold that I almost shivered myself off the bike and onto the freezing roadway. I wanted to reach down several times and just rest my hands on the engine, but I was too cold to extend any appendage too far from my tepid core.
Outside the gas station/international mini mall and truck stop I saw a fellow on a road bicycle. He had a trailer in tow, and was just standing there taking in the brisk…ok, cold morning air. I asked him if he was cold since I was literally freezing at 70mph. Then I asked him where he was coming from.
“Knoxville, Tennessee” was his reply, Holy shit! I had to hear about this epic road trip. Well, it turns out, he started riding from Knoxville to Los Angeles for the Karma Ride, a ride that he had started to raise awareness and money for lupus research. I told him that my hands were frozen and that I needed to buy a coffee, not to drink, but just to use as a hand warmer, and I bought him one too.
After chatting for a while and hearing all of the events that had preceded his ride, I was enamored with his passion and dedication to this cause which he had taken on single-handedly, and on his own. Several strangers came up to tell him that they overheard our conversation, and they too offered up their support and praise.
A critter had found his food bag during the night, so he had spent some of his tightly kept budget on the unforeseen expense of resupplying some lost grub. That was money that he was going to use to purchase a water bottle with, as his had been lost somewhere between Arizona and Nevada. Stopping every few miles to chug water in the arid desert landscape was leaving him even more dehydrated than being able to sip when necessary from a bottle. So, I figured I could sponsor him by getting him a new one from the mini mart.
I knew this guy wasn’t just someone asking for money at a gas station (which I sadly see a lot on my back-and forth commutes between San Diego and L.A.). I knew this because, well, first off, ain’t nobody riding out to Primm to ask for money. Second, he didn’t ask for anything. Even when I offered to buy him coffee and the water bottle, he opted for the cheapest varieties. He wasn’t asking for anything except to be heard, and to spread his message about the voyage and the stories of the people whose kindness had led him half way across the country for a cause that he believes in.
Oh yeah, this wanderer of thousands of miles and countless smiles, his name is Andre Block, and he’s alright in my book. Check him out when you get a chance. @Dre918
And ride a 250cc to Vegas if you ever get the opportunity. Just hope the wind is in your favor.
-Cheers