- We had planned to make an early departure out of San Francisco to head 2 hours up north to Tomales, specifically in the quest to relive the amazing burgers and sandwiches found at the Tomales Deli and Cafe (http://bit.ly/d3Z8oe).
Basso finally got his bike out of crap primer and coated the panels white - it looks pretty damn good, he should've done this a long time ago.
We were making good progress and heading up towards thinner crowds when we encountered a savage gang of senior citizens couped up in their sedan going half the speed limit. After 20 full minutes of inane follow-the-lame-duck and a buildup of 20 cars behind us, Basso and Sasha had to resort to honking their horn and motioning for them to pull over to the passing lane, which is clearly stated in several signs that "Slower traffic must yield using passing lane on right" or something to that effect. Of course, the grandpops wasn't paying attention and was trying to scurry his way along the twisties with his posse of white haired cougars.
As we hit an opening, Basso overtook them but I hesitated since there was an incline and I was certain that I did not have enough torque to clear the obstacle at hand, with enough time to get safe before the oncoming blind curve. So essentially, I got stuck puttering behind the old folks' home.
As we round the next curve, I notice the white bike rolling to a stop on the side of the highway, and at first thought that the schmuck actually waited for me. But to keep the long story even longer, turns out that his bike had stalled.
It wouldn't start, and after a little while I noticed some liquid dripping from the air can. Smells like gasoline! We took out the air filter cover, and a gigantic waterfall of fuel splashed out of the casing and into the hot engine underneath it. Thank Tamales that it didn't catch fire!! That was a SERIOUS situation, kids. Two biker dudes stopped by and tried to assess the problem, but it was clear that his bike was SOL (shit outta luck) - switching the petcock into the 'on' position created a cascade of gasoline overflowing from inside the carburetor and flooding everything in its path. So, I wanted to say that Basso probably had a faulty petcock. Even though it might actually be something in his carbs that are stuck.
We lucked out that we were less than 1/2 mile from the next town, and pushed in for some Sand Dollar Restaurant action (fish tacos, mussels, fresh oysters, a burger, and some happy brew).
They took the bus back to Sausalito, and ferried themselves back into the city while Kat and I scooted our way back into the hot summer Sunday madness.
Hopefully, it all works out since we have an epic trip coming up in a few weeks. :) Ride safe, boys and girls!