 |
 |
 |
by Dan Empfield, September, '01 (www.slowtwitch.com)
MY MISSION 9.23.01
MY JOB 9.24.01
MY BAG 9.24.01
HIGH MILEAGE, LOW SLEEP 10.1.01
IN-COUNTRY 10.1.01
RED ROCK 10.2.01
I’m about to dump a lot of money and it’s got me in a funk.
I’ve got remote chores to do––stuff that must be done, but which requires travel to remote locations. Add the remote chores up and they equal a road trip. Usually a road trip is cause for anything but a funk, so I’ll have to explain about the money and the trip and the funk.
Slowtwitch must cover Interbike in Vegas, which starts at the end of September. Interbike is crucial to my and your existence. Almost every company meaningful to the sport of triathlon––unless you want to do all three sports naked, barefoot, and bikeless––has a booth at that trade show. I’m covering it live, like a race.
My base of operations for this event is my ‘99 Dodge 1500 4X4, 5.9L, full-size bed, standard cab pickup. Too much vehicle information, that’s what you’re thinking. The base of operations isn’t in the cab of the truck it’s in its bed, in which sits––or will sit––my Northstar Camper. I wrote the details of the Dodge because it’s only fair to tell the motorheads among you precisely what will transport my brain center from spot to spot.
The camper is currently on a flatbed truck with other campers on its way to Sacramento––that’s where it’s being delivered from the Iowa-based manufacturer. San Dago to Sacto is leg-one of my road trip.
Having had trailers, RVs––pretty much the whole gamut––I decided to hold a summit on the theme of “perfect road trip vehicle.” I invited everyone I knew whose opinion on the subject I trusted, and my strict prerequisites narrowed the list to one: Mark Montgomery, the only living exponent––besides me––of on-and-off-road BYOC (civilization) who has owned every conceivable iteration of rolling house.
The Summit was held at Wildflower. No white papers were read, but history, experience, reason and rationale spiked with homebrew yielded a consensus: The perfect set-up is a pick-up with a pop-up truck camper. I volunteered for research duty, and for a lot of reasons which will be explained later Iowa-based Northstar appeared to make the unit we wanted. Monty and I each ordered ours. In order to get it for Interbike I’ve got to go to Sacto. Then it’s a shakedown cruise straight across the mountains and desert to Vegas and Interbike.
The camper is just the beginning or, rather, the ending of my cash outlay. First I’ve got to get new tires, air bags, and a new system of removable tie-downs. The truck has to be serviced (it's lugging up hills, and I’ve got a sticky disc caliper or faulty ABS I think). The cost for all this is staggering, and that’s what’s got me in a mood. I don’t mind spending the money, it’s the unavoidable mingling with people in industries with which I do not have a favorable historical relationship.
Take today for example. I’m getting tires installed. These are four of the eight tires I’ve got to buy––four for the truck, and another quartet for the wife’s SUV. I’ve got 28,900 miles on a 50,000-mile set of Goodyears. The Goodyear dealer is giving me a lot of hassle. Essentially, neither it, nor Goodyear (says the dealer) intends on honoring the warranty. It being Sunday, we’ll see about that tomorrow, when Goodyear people are manning their phones. In the meantime I got some Winstons.
Sorry about sharing the tire thing. It’s all a lot of Springerish divulging of personal minutia that's icky to write about but it's contributing to my sense of foreboding. I’ve got to be honest, I’m laying in wait for the screw job I know I’ve got coming to me.
The only way to make myself feel better about it is to become small and petty. On the one hand you shouldn’t (as we all know) mess with those who buy ink by the barrel (or the gigabyte). On the other hand, a reputable highbrow publication like Slowtwitch doesn’t exact revenge and air dirty laundry on it’s editorial pages.
Except for this one time.
High up on my list of lifes axioms is, don’t mess with a man’s road trip. Fair warning to the automotive industry: Screw with my road trip and you’ll pay the price of unwanted fame.
Finally, as a member of the community of journalists I felt it incumbant upon myself to manufacture a double-ententre’d title, hence the Small and Petty Tour. I’ll certainly be playing a lot of Tom Petty on this road trip, and since I have every intention of being small and petty (in just this one series of articles) the title seemed appropriate.
I am a professional asshole. That is my job. At times I must say things that are not nice, even about products made by my friends. Tougher yet is reporting that not only a company's products, but the company itself, doesn't measure up.
I spoke to a very nice lady named Lucy this morning in Goodyear Tire Company's customer service department (actually it wasn't "Lucy"––no need to embarass anybody other than Goodyear's CEO, which I hope I do a little further below). "Lucy" nicely explained to me that even though my Goodyears were aftermarket tires, when they're sold on a new vehicle they're magically "original equipment tires" and therefore not covered by a mileage warranty.
"Then what," I asked, "is this piece of paper I'm holding that says, "Limited Warranty?" Lucy didn't have that particular printed warranty in front of her, which appeared to mean that––although I had the warranty in front of me––it didn't exist.
I suppose most exasperating was the following statement, which I asked her to repeat as it was hard for me to believe she'd said it: "We have no control over what one of our dealers tell you. They can say whatever they want."
As a former maker of vehicles myself, that is not exactly true. In fact, when I founded and built Quintana Roo we had very specific dealer agreements dictating that those who sold our products had to toe the line regarding representations made about our bicycles and wetsuits. Failure to do so meant cancellation of dealer privileges. Failure to offer customer service, and to assist in warranty service, meant they were cancelled as dealers. Furthermore, both we and the dealer felt bound by representations the dealer made about our products.
In light of all that it is my belief that Goodyear's CEO, Samir Gibara, who was paid $1.3 million in compensation last year, ought to instruct his $7 billion company to stand behind what representations its dealers make. He also might learn the lesson of providing good service––even over-the-top service––which is not nearly as scary as it sounds. People are not cheaters, fundamentally, and they'll not take advantage of you. Giving $1 million to New York relief efforts––which Gibara's company did––is all well and good, but a better initiative yet would be for Goodyear to start trusting its customers.
Shoot me a call, Mr. Gibara, and I'll explain how I built a company on the back of good service and engendering customer loyalty. As for "Lucy"––you sound like a nice lady. There's a company out there on whose behalf, and to whose customers, you can give good news instead of bad.
I'm not Consumer Reports, and Slowtwitch doesn't report on the Fleecing of America––only on the fleecing of Slowman. Even so, Slowtwitch readers are busy folks and would rather be out riding than sitting for a steady diet of my personal whining. I'd rather be out riding as well, which is what I'm going to do right now (on tires that perform as represented by the manufacturer).
MY BAG
Air bag that is. This was today’s question: air bags or leaf springs? The truck is lightly rated for load capacity. The 360 V8 is enough muscle, but stock-equipped it needs a little more suspension to carry a camper. The Northstar is light as campers go, but that means it’s 1400 pounds instead of 2200 pounds. Still a lot of weight. And that’s before you load it up with 52 gallons of water, and the propane, and all you’re stuff.
I’ve always been an air bag guy. But adding a leaf appeals to me. Steel versus air. The question was, do I just go to the add-a-leaf guy who’ll do it for a couple a hundred, or the re-arc the entire set of leaf springs while adding a leaf guy, who’ll do it for $580?
The arc-the-springs guy worked me. He reminded me of Vincent Gardenia in Moonstruck. “You’ve got your galvanized people, and then you’ve got your copper people.”
While the guy was re-arc’ing my springs I took a bike ride in the middle of the hottest day of the year in Escondido––trying out some of my thermoregulation garb––and I stopped in to my neighborhood Dodge dealer. I explained the engine problem.
“Could it be the computer?” I asked.
“You say it’s lugging, not pinging. If it was pinging, then yes, it could be the computer. But lugging? No pinging? Can't be the computer. The sensor, yes, computer no. We hook it up to the MMB40, it tells us what the problem is. Who knows? Could just be a plug wire. But, there’s so many things it could be with these new cars. It’s not like the old days––distributor, points, condensor.”
“Okay look, enough of the muffler bearing horseshit. I’m no housewife. Just level with me. How much is it goiing to cost?”
“We hook it up to the MMB40, and that’s just diagnostic. That’s before we start working on whatever the problem is. Or, we do the major tune-up. That’s $240.”
“Fine, let’s do the major tune-up.”
We settled on an appointment time, tomorrow at 1PM, directly after I get my camper tie-downs installed.
“By the way,” I asked just before I rode off, “have you ever heard of a tire company having two warranties on the same tire, one for aftermarket, the other for original equipment?”
“Been here 14 years, never heard that rule.”
HIGH MILEAGE, LOW SLEEP
Change of itinerary. I decided to shoot up to Sacto early to get the camper. I left at eleven at night on Tuesday and arrived at seven the next morning. Over the Grapevine––the four thousand foot range that separates the L.A. basin from California’s Central Valley––I saw almost no cars (which was to be expected) but the right-hand lane was an almost unbroken convoy of trucks. That patriotic feeling came over me again, watching terrestrial merchant mariners keeping America’s economic machine oiled up. Lots of little American flags from their aerials.
My truck was ready to accept the Northstar camper––new tires, springs, tie-downs––with one exception. I needed an electrical outlet installed on the inside of the bed––this to provide electrical power from the truck to the camper. I called as I entered the outskirts of Sacto and on my fourth try found an RV place that’d do the job right then. An hour later I was wired, and over picking up the camper.
Exactly 24 hours after leaving San Diego, and a thousand miles later, I returned with the camper up top.
I got up this morning and dropped my trailer off at Reynolds Composites (forks) so that they could haul their booth to Interbike. They’ve always coveted the trailer, and I covet their 3-kilowatt Honda generator. I smell a deal. I need a smaller trailer anyway––probably a single-axle flatbed, on which I can do some custom woodwork and have my man Mandaric weld a couple of boxes (one for my new generator, God- and Reynolds-willing).
The camper becomes imperitive because if you’re hauling a travel trailor or 5th wheel, there’s no place to haul your workstand, pop-up tents, toolboxes, generator, and whatever else. An RV is an option, except for two problems. First is the expense. You’ve now, with your regular vehicle, got two sets of vehicular issues: two sets of tires, two engines, two transmissions, etc. The bigger problem, though, is the mobility. You can’t off-road with an RV. The exception to this is a company which makes an off-road 4X4 house-on-wheels, and for the well-heeled this remains a viable option.
My original plan was to make a big triangle: San Diego-Sacramento-Vegas-home. Now the Small and Petty Tour is a pair of out-and-backs. Have to prep and fill the camper and then I’m off to Interbike.
IN-COUNTRY
The idea of getting the camper prior to Interbike was to finally nail Las Vegas, instead of Vegas nailing me, which is what it has done for the past 14 consecutive years.
I don't gamble. That's not the problem. What's gotten me is the rigors of the bike industry's biggest trade show coupled with the fact that Las Vegans––visitors included––smoke a combined total of nineteen tons of tobacco per day (calculated with the help of the staff of Chicago Athlete, who happened to be sitting next to me in the Interbike press room).
Most exhibitors––and I was one of those at this show for a dozen years––are fairly trashed by the time they arrive at the show. Then it's 4 days of air-conditioned mayhem. For buyers it's four days of walking and standing, which is a lot harder than running and biking. Add to that the fact that when it's all over you've got to walk through casinos with smoke so thick you can't see further than the third blackjack table distant.
Why do I walk through a casino at all, you might ask? Because the hotel elevators are always strategically placed on the opposite side of the front desk. You can't avoid them.
Except for this year. My goal was to stay up at Red Rock Canyon––about a half-hour north of Vegas––and drive in for the show every day. In so doing I could start the day with a run or ride.
Driving from San Diego you take the Hunter S. Thompson Highway east from San Berdo, through Barstow and Baker. Baker is the "Gateway to Death Valley," a hollow claim. Death Valley has lots of gateways. What Baker is famous for is Bun Boy. The owner of Bun Boy––whomever he is––is no Ray Kroc, but he hasn't done badly. Leveraged burger profits have built the adjacent Bun Boy Motel, and Bun Boy enterprizes eventually built the striking monument to heat, the Bun Boy thermometer (advertised as the world's tallest).
Once in Red Rock I knew I'd done the right thing. More people would know about this place if it wasn't for The Strip sucking up all of Las Vegas' PR oxygen. Vegans have their own personal Canyonlands only minutes away. Other than the fact that it's eight-thousand degrees during the midday summer, it's eden here.
Lots of people asked me during Interbike's first day where I was staying and I could tell by their reaction that they'd have swapped me straight across their $250 rooms at the Venetian for my camper and its $10 spot at Red Rock's 13-mile campground.
Best of all about this set-up is the ability to rise early and "do Red Rock" on bike or trails before each day's show. I've ridden for two consecutive mornings and while it may not entirely reverse the damage the show does to one's legs and lungs it certainly helps.
During this morning's ride I came across a family of wild burros––four grown-ups and two foals––walking across the road on which I was riding. Oh, for a camera!. I thought of God's rhetorical question to Job, "What makes the wild donkeys wild?" That query may sound like bad sentence structure, but it somehow starts to make sense when you see them out here.
RED ROCK
Awoke this morning while it was still dark, just in time to see a full harvest moon descend behind the Calico Hills. Fifteen minutes later the sun came up and shone on these same hills, where I was going to be running within the hour.
I believe it's the autumnal equinox about now, the halfway point between the year's longest and shortest days. While it's still hot during the day in these hills above Vegas it's just about perfect at 6 a.m. and for two or three hours thereafter.
The Calico Hills in Red Rock Canyon are spectacular when viewed as you ride a bike by them while on the 14-mile paved loop. But taken in up-close, during a run on the trail system that criss-crosses the canyon, they're better yet. This canyon would've gotten Georgia O'Keefe to pull up stakes in Abique, N.M., and move west, had she seen them. They're sometimes deep red, sometimes lighter. In fact when you're atop them the peach-shaded rocks look––in color, shape, and texture––like you're standing on big salmon fillets.
I really fell for this place. I'd been here before, but I didn't really understand Red Rock until this time––Red Rock and I have now bonded. As I was running over these big red masses Sinead O'Connor shot into my head: "Nothing compares to you."
I know this was an overreaction. I was infatuated with Red Rock like a Vegas conventioner falling for the girl in a nudie show. It's just like me to fall for a rock formation instead. Like the typical conventioner, though, I'll reacquire a sense of perspective as I return home, and when I'm back in my beloved Sierras I'll apologize for cheating on them.
As my run ended I ran into a few cyclists I knew. On the first day here I saw perhaps 500 riding on these Red Rock roads––all bike industry people. On day-two I had it all to myself. The shock of the show––the toll it takes––took the wind out of the sails of everybody's stated intentions to do Red Rock every day. Now, morning-three of the show, a few souls bounced back, or willed themselves back. The Reynolds forks guys were all out as a group on their bikes. Just afterward I saw Cid Cardoso from Inside Out Sports in North Carolina.
We're all just making the best of it. I felt like I had glue running through the veins in my legs when I started my run. Twenty minutes later, though, I was on the way to being cured.
Back to the rig I went, which while in the "up" position afforded all the luxuries of home. While I did this show right for the first time in fourteen years, the rest of Vegas happened to be laboring under an inversion which rendered the air "unhealthful." I, up at almost five-thousand feet, looked down at the soot-filled valley––not just downward at it, but down my nose at it. It was the theme of my tour, remember, to be small and petty.
I'm back home as I write this, and it's 11 p.m. tuesday night. Tomorrow I go to Kona. Too bad I can't take the camper.
