Riding with the Royal Bastards

I have always wanted to be in a group or club or to be a part of something larger; however, it never pans out. I always end up alone. For this reason, Facebook was made for me. Yet, just like MySpace before it, I joined, connected with some friends, and realized that no one was “talking” to me--social media was much like the real world.

When I first bought my Vespa, I went online, associated myself with the Vespa Club of Sacramento (VCOS), and attended my first rally only two months after I first turned the ignition key on my GTL. Some people might have said, "Hey, just enjoy your scooter," but I have never worked that way. When I got my first chessboard I joined the U.S. Chess Federation. It's kind of a compulsion.

I thought I was on my way to becoming a member of something beyond the stuff I take for granted, such as the human race, the U.S. citizenry, Californian, church member. I never really had a chance to have an extended ride with these individuals. I missed the featured run in that first rally I attended, but I thought that there would be plenty of other opportunities, especially once I became a member of the VCOS. Billy, an officer of the VCOS and one of the nicest people to ride a scooter, told me when I asked about membership, “You wouldn’t be comfortable in our club.” I soon found out that my scooter was too new. Further, whereas I found it to be counterproductive for the Vespa Club of America to support chapters that excluded newer scooters, as shiny new Vespa scooters are free advertising for the Vespa, I did not weep. On the same day I was being denied by the VCOS, I discovered the Sacramento Chapter of the Royal Bastards Scooter Club (RBSC). The members accepted anyone with any kind of scooter, even the much maligned Chinese scooters!

I began attending RBSC meet-ups (meet and greet gatherings at which members, prospects, and outsiders would meet at restaurants and coffee houses) and weekend rides sponsored by the Scoot Shop, which is now closed. I felt anxious at the meetups, so I would eat a lot. I ended up not going to many of these events, but remained updated on where the next one would be in case I could find the courage to try to socialize again. The Scoot Shop's weekend rides were not bad, primarily because the co-owner, Rebekah, made everyone feel welcome and because the runs were well-structured. Given that I was new to this, I liked how the other co-owner, Theron, controlled the run with new people in the front and experienced people in the back. I did not feel as though I would be dusted.




The meet and greet at On the Y

 

From the time I started tracking the RBSC's activities I believed that all RBSC rallies were overnighters that required camping out. (By the time I was told that this was not the case, it did not matter anymore, as you will see.) I failed to register for these rallies, avoiding many stressful hours of hanging around a campsite trying to fit in and getting waterlogged or tea-logged while everyone else drank beer, which seemed to be the official beverage for scooter clubs.

At a Keaton boat gathering last winter, a fellow boat owner, who happened to be an RBSC member, told me that they were planning a one-day rally. This event seemed ideal for me, as it required no tent or sleeping bag. During this phase of my life, the one thing that I thought would make me feel like I was a part of a group I could call my own was the run, the long road trip that was the heart of the scooter rally. On May 19, 2012, when I attended the “Y Not One-Day Rally,” I finally had that chance to be in a run and believed that everything would be okay. During lunch, I discovered that many rallies had nearby lodging accommodations. Further, except for the rallies that required scooters to be towed to remote locations, I would be ready to attend these events and could possibly become a member.

After the usual awkwardness during the continental breakfast meet and greet at a dive bar called On the Y, we took off for our run. It was a ride to Rio Vista for lunch at Foster’s Buckhorn, then back to On the Y for some barbecue. At slightly less than 50 miles each way, it was a short ride compared to some of the rides about which I had heard. Nevertheless, it was the longest ride that I had endured. I stress the word “endured.”



Royal Bastards et al on one of the ferries heading towards Rio Vista



When we took off from On the Y, I found myself near the front of the pack as we made our way through town. I did not like this pole position, but my scooter was parked at the bar in such a way that when the after the first three or four scooters rolled out down Fulton Avenue my scooter was in the "next" position to go and I felt all eyes were on me to roll on the juice. By the time we crossed the American River on the I Street Bridge, I had fallen back to the end. I was only in front of the RBSC member whom I thought was maintaining the rear. As we wound our way down South River Road, I found it harder to keep up with the scooter in front of me, a Honda Silverwing. If all of the scooters in this run were larger bore machines like this Honda, I would have felt better. However, I saw a Vespa P125 and a Rally 200 (2 stroke engine). There were also some older scooters. I could not understand why I could not keep up with those machines. Was I that slow?

My hands began to ache like hell, especially my right hand around the thumb and index finger—the throttle hand. I was not used to travelling so far and fast. I was still losing ground. I kept looking in the mirror to see the designated final rider at a comfortable distance from me. If she wanted me to go faster, she was not showing it. Still, I was amazed how fast these scooterists wanted to travel and how slow I was.

In my defense, I truly believed that all of these scooterists, who had been on many more runs than I, were missing the point of riding River Road. We were not on a smoggy freeway through a dull area. In a recent post, I wrote about River Road. These scooterists rode as if they were fleeing a bank heist. I concentrated on that last scooter, using more power, even at my poor right hand’s expense. Nevertheless, the Silverwing just kept shrinking.



The fast scooterists waiting for the slower ones.



At the first of two ferry crossings, I caught up with the pack. The scooterist behind me politely criticized me for not moving over to allow a truck to pass. I felt embarrassed because I should have known better, I've rode the River Road many times and know to give passing cars a wide berth. I must have been looking at the shrinking Silverwing, rather than noticing that a truck had passed the last scooterist before passing me. I was also embarrassed because, despite my poor socializing skills, I wanted to make a good impression on all of the club members. I was failing.

As the nice lady was gently advising me on something about which I already knew, but obviously failed to exercise, approximately eight scooters pulled up. My jaw dropped. There was a slower group behind us. I had been twisting my right wrist until it was literally numb for nothing. We crossed the river. I remained with the slower group. My fellow slowpokes and I crossed another ferry. Within a few minutes, we were in Rio Vista.

The idea was to eat at Foster’s Bighorn, a burger joint of sorts with an interesting menu: a Burger Scoot opportunity. Unfortunately, my new position in the back of the line hindered me from hearing one of the leaders asking for a show of hands for Bighorn. As a result, I ended up eating at a pizza joint a block away. It was not a problem, although I felt like a fifth wheel at a table with two couples comprised of Royal Bastards. They were friendly enough, but twenty or so minutes where I kind of kept up with the conversation the couples then turned the subject on club business and much like watching the tail of the Silverwing, I was left in the dust.

One thing that made me feel forlorn was that I was spending time with couples. I thought that it would be nice if my wife and I were members and if all six of us could be having a conversation about the club. We could also go on all of the rallies and attend the meetings and the meet-ups, but on the ride home I didn't care about any of that stuff anymore.

When the time came to leave, once again, I strategically placed myself at the back of the group with only two riders behind me. Given that both women were club members, I assumed that one of them was the official caboose. Unfortunately, this time, all of the other scooterists were riding at a speed way above my comfort zone, including two-stroke scooters that had a smaller displacement than my 200. I realized that I must have been riding slowly. Yet, when I checked my speedometer again and saw the speed limit signs, I was traveling the speed limit. On straight-aways, I am sure that I was exceeding the speed limit. I should have been able to catch the slower scooters, but the last of them disappeared.


In Rio Vista--Foster's Bighorn in the background



One of the two women behind me who was riding a red Vespa GT250 with a black flame detail. She pulled me over and told me to follow the other scooterist. Over the next hour, we got lost twice. Further, I received bitchy instructions once and an apology for the bitchy instructions twice. When we finally made it back to On the Y, she apologized one more time, addressing the elephant in the room. I had obviously screwed up her day. At that point, I would have preferred it if she had simply told me what a loser I was. Sometimes, the Honest Planet is the most compassionate place to be.

I did try to defend myself by pointing out that I hung back to ride with the slowpokes, but they all seemed to be riding quickly. She read to me one of the commandments from the Scooter Bible informed me that “slow riders are supposed to lead because they set the pace.” This makes perfect sense--like the scooter runs sponsored by the Scoot Shop--but whom was she lecturing? Was I leading this run? Was this my fault? Where was the leader who should have placed me in front of the pack (the way the Scoot Shop used to direct their scooter runs)? Even though I was accidentally in front when we left the bar in the morning, scooterists were passing me left and right when we rode through Sacramento. I told her these things, but she just repeated how it should be done in a bitchier tone, as if she was tired of hearing my defense. I was praying she I wouldn't get an apology for her last set of comments. Maybe I won't have to hear it if I am not around.

I gave away my drink tickets and the $25 worth of raffle tickets I purchased earlier that morning. When I got home, I cried. I know, a 54- year-old man crying is really pathetic. Still, it was just another failed attempt to be part of a community.



Fueling up on the way back



I felt a little better when I reflected about the day. I realized that I might be too sensitive. Nothing ever comes easily to me. I knew that it might take some work, but I would someday be an experienced scooterist and maybe enven a Royal Bastard. I thought again. This was all for the best for both the Royal Bastards and Jockomo. I tended to do things alone and had done so for so long time. I felt more comfortable that way. No more awkward socializing and I did not see anything relaxing in riding at those speeds.

Two days later, I was ordering my usual soy chai latte at my favorite coffee house downtown. I asked Ann, the pretty, young woman making my drink, if she still enjoyed riding her Honda Helix scooter. She said that she did, then lit up, “Hey, I saw a bunch of scooters riding together downtown last Saturday!” I beamed for a second and stated, “Yeah, I was in that pack! That was the Royal Bastards” Sadness immediately washed over me. What the hell am I so excited about. I paid for my drink, and Ann delivered it to me a minute later. She was too busy to ask about the rally if I had a good time. Good! I sipped my chai latte and realized that I was the only customer drinking alone, nothing new there. Later that day I would go out to lunch—alone as usual.

I am the Lone Scooterist.

My Own "Scooter in the Sticks"

One of the best rides in the Sacramento area is the River Road portion of Route 160. In the late spring and summer, the ride is a nice way to cool off, with the Sacramento River on your right as you head south. The road is in great shape and you can ride it all the way down to Paintersville Bridge, where the 160 takes you across to Sacramento, and then you can travel further south to Isleton and the delta.

I have ridden as far as Paintersville. After that, the territory is uncharted for me. If more experienced scooterists point out better rides, I am happy to check them out.

When I do not have much time, one of my favorite routes is taking River Road to the town of Freeport, crossing the bridge there and heading up South River Road back to West Sacramento and to Jefferson Blvd. Here, I cross the river at the Tower Bridge, and then make my way home.

During this little run, I enjoy taking pictures of the farmland with my scooter in the foreground. This trip is not about me showing off as it is about a different way to display nature or a rustic environment. I got the idea from the excellent photo blog, Scooter in the Sticks.

Steve Williams is a photography and motorsport enthusiast. In addition to his Vespa GT 250, Williams has a few road and sport bikes. He also has a close relationship with a motorcycle shop and is able to take other bikes on extended test rides. Lucky dog! Of course, I am not as skilled a photographer as Williams, and the cameras that I use—a relatively old Canon Powershot SD400 and, lately, an iPhone 4S—do not produce the higher quality images that Williams’ SLRs produce.

I have taken this route even when the temperature was in the mid-40s. I love the ride in any kind of Sacramento weather, except for rain. My only complaint is that the South River Road on the west side of the river (whoever named the road may have had the map at a 90° angle from North) is bumpy and has many potholes, road snakes, and underdeveloped pavement. The ride was invigorating albeit not very challenging—I have rarely ridden farther than this loop.

Whitey’s “Home Made” Burgers
Before starting the trip back—crossing over the Tower Bridge—I stopped at Whitey's Jolly Kone (1300 Jefferson Blvd in West Sacramento). Whitey’s is a great hamburger stand that, for some crazy reason, is closed on weekends. This time, I rode on a weekday and was able to enjoy this stop. The stand has no inside seating but offers six or seven tables, so in hot or cold weather, most customers eat in their cars. On this day, the temperature was comfortably in the mid-80s, even with my boots and Kevlar jeans on.

Whitey’s appears to have many regular customers. At least two of the people who came up to the window did not have to order but just said, “give me the usual.” The help is extremely friendly and so were the customers. Many went out of their way to greet me despite my usual facial expression that, I am told, looks a little like, “Don’t bug me” or “My dog just died.” (The staff at Whitey has a mi casa su casa attitude that is quite different from an experience I had on the road some months earlier, but more on that later.)



1/3 Pound Cheeseburger and fries. I think their default delivery is
to-go. Either that or they didn't want scooter trash hanging around. 



The menu is displayed on five signs under the stand’s front windows. Besides burgers, Whitey’s offers chicken fried steak sandwiches, chicken sandwiches, BLT sandwiches, grilled cheese sandwiches, fish sandwiches, garden burgers, various burgers and dogs, and drinks. They also serve Mexican food and breakfast.

I had the “1/3 Pound Cheeseburger,” a traditional burger with just the right amount of shredded lettuce, tomato, onions, and pickles on a solid if not inspiring bun that stayed with me the whole time and did not shrink, as some do. As I was eating the cheeseburger, I was reminded of the burgers that Dad used to make. This is both a good thing and not such a good thing. It is a good thing in that you can taste the fresh ingredients and you know if you ever come by here again that you would love to have something on the menu (check out the Grilled Onion & Pepper Burger or, better yet, the King Grilled Onion & Pepper Burger!).

On the other hand, if you are looking for something different, something that will knock your socks off, Whitey’s is not it. I suppose that if I created a separate top ten burgers list, one for good but not fancy burgers, Whitey’s would make this list. It would be in stiff competition with Jerry’s Tumbleweed Inn, Jamie’s Bar & Grill, and Scott’s Burger Shack.

The French fries were thick, which I usually do not like, but they were very crispy and did not require ketchup. The iced tea was good, especially for a place that was not a restaurant. While at Whitey’s in the past, I ordered shakes. They are terrific; I cannot overstate how good they are.

After I finished my iced tea, I left Whitey’s and crossed the Tower Bridge. From there, I wound my way back home through downtown and South Sacramento. I have gone this way a few times in the past and noted the total mileage at approximately 14 miles. In the future, I plan to stretch this loop and visit Isleton and other places on the River Road or 160.

Road Rage: Ford F-350 v Vespa GT 200

The last time I took the River Road loop, I did so not to cool down, but to relax. I got something quite to the contrary. The temperature was in the mid-40s, but the day was clear and it was not cold when in the sun. What was notable about that run was when I pulled up to a light on Jefferson Blvd. In my mirrors, I saw a big white truck coming up on me quickly, its horn blowing. When I looked up at the light, it was green so I gunned it.

The truck appeared to be a Ford F-350 monstrosity with an extended cab. If that is incorrect, it was some kind of Ford, believe me. The blue emblem on the grill was all that I saw in my mirrors before I goosed it.



I did not have time to take a shot of my harassers so
here is a nice soothing picture of a scooter near a field.

 The truck moved into the left lane to pass me but slowed down alongside me just enough for a foul-mouth youngster to lean way out of the window and spout off, “Get off the road you f%$king A#@hole!” and then sped off. Though I was rattled, I did not look directly at the harasser. The truck then slowed down and was next to me again, and the potty-mouth youngster again yelled about the same thing to me. I could see that I was dealing with some serious Whiskey Tango (NATO phonetic alphabet for W.T.—W.T. for “white trash”)—a Whiskey Tango that can afford an
F-350 truck, I suppose.

I pulled off Jefferson Blvd. into Whitey’s Jolly Kone's parking lot and heard the kid belt out the same thing at 100 feet away and fading. I waited no more than 30 seconds to put some distance between the road rage rangers and me, and then I took off again, only to find that the truck had slowed down quite a bit just to serve up more verbal abuse to this confused scooterist. One more time, I heard the little punk say the same tired colloquialisms directly across the lane from me. Then, the truck made a left turn and drove out of my sight. I pulled over one more time to make sure the truck was not turning around. It was not. The ordeal was over.

Whenever I do something on the road that may have been wrong, I always reflect on my driving with a healthy dose of self-deprecation. After the scooter came to a stop, I skipped the “You idiot, Jocko…” spiel and ran through what I might have done to bring out the G.E.D.-level mentality in this Whiskey Tango. What I came up with was that either I did not notice that the light had changed (because I was admiring the shiny big Ford emblem on the truck’s grill as it filled my mirror) or I was looking at the wrong red light while approaching the intersection and stopped on a green light. I hope not.

I would have preferred if brat’s diatribe was more illuminating, such as “Hey [insert profane noun here], we almost killed you. Are you color blind?” but the simpleton chose words that implied that I did something to them rather than the other way around. Whatever the reason for the unimaginative insults, I was reminded that I need to S.E.E. (Search. Evaluate. Execute), and S.E.E. with vigilance. Whiskey Tango drivers are out there, my fellow scooterists so beware!

One Terrific (and Terrifying!) Burger

Stewart, one of the people I grew up with, has read this blog before and likes the idea, but on at least two occasions stressed that I needed to go to the Flaming Grill Café, 2319 El Camino Avenue in Sacramento. It was on my short list of places that reportedly serve outstanding burgers (along with Gatsby’s, Golden Bear, Whitey’s, Selland’s, and the out-of-town legends Katrina’s Café and the Putah Creek Café). I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. When he stressed his point again when I saw him recently, I pushed the Flaming Grill Café to the top of the list.

Unassuming, you can easily miss this
place driving down El Camino Ave.

The first thing that struck me as I parked my scooter next to the place is how funky the building looked. It appeared to be a small building that has awnings in front and around one side. The place was previously Deli Bean, a coffee house and delicatessen, and it seems that it would not be a friendly place to eat during Sacramento’s extreme seasons because there are no doors to the seating area. When a guitarist walked by me playing Mariachi music, it immediately reminded me of some of the places I visited in Mexico when I was a kid—except instead of corrugated tin, the seating area’s walls and roof were made of something that would make the customers happy (and make code). Still, I wonder what this place is like in triple-digit weather or when the cold whistles through the doorless dining area.

A nice woman seated me next to three guys who looked to be in their thirties and appeared to be musicians. They were talking about the songs they did last night and plan to do better tonight. These were all songs by bands like AC/DC, Metallica, and the like, so I figured they were a cover band.

I ordered the “1/2 lb. Kobe Jalapeño Jack,” which is a huge patty of Kobe-style beef, with Jack cheese, fresh jalapenos, onions, tomato, and shredded lettuce on a fresh house-baked bun surprisingly big enough to handle the load. The woman explained to me that the restaurant uses a Thousand Island-type dressing of house sauce in an apologetic tone, if I interpreted her tone correctly. I can understand how she might be a little embarrassed about the foursquare sauce considering all the exotic things that are on the menu. (More on that later.)

When the burger came, the first thing I noticed was that the burger had a steak knife sticking horizontally through the bun and a plastic (?) fork next to the plate. The steak knife handle was at eye level and seemed to be talking to me. Like Freddy the Flute talked to Jimmy in that counterculture kid’s show H.R. Pufinstuf, Nicky the Knife said, “Hey Fatso, I’m not here for my good looks—cut this bad boy in half and bring the other half home. Don’t make a fool of yourself, as usual.” But as king of the Clean Plate Club, I had a job to do, regardless of how I would feel about it later.

Burp!

Moderation should be the ticket—like the lady on the Special K commercial who selects cold cereal for brunch while her three friends chow down on omelets, waffles, bacon, and sausage. But seriously, who would go to a restaurant and order cold cereal? “Someone who goes out to eat with their friends for the company—not the food, lard ass,” says Nicky the Knife, now resting unused next to the plate. “Okay, point taken, Pointy.” Wait, these guys next to me are now talking about jamming in someone’s living room. I guess someone in the band is not married.
I somehow was talked into ordering specialty fries. The waitress said the burger comes with fries or brown rice (brown rice?), but she suggested specialty fries and before I figured out what I was doing, I ordered the Carne Asada Fries. (Nicky the Knife must have been dozing.) The Carne Asada Fries are garlic fries topped with cheddar cheese, grilled sirloin, pico de gallo salsa, sour cream, and topped with fresh jalapenos. Eating these fries was like eating another main course. The actual fries themselves seemed okay, but I could not fairly judge them in all that cheese, meat, etc.

Why is this listed as an appetizer? We are talking a meal here: beef, dairy, veggies, on a bed of starch—that is another hamburger! The customers at Yelp.com all rave about these fries and I can see why, but do these people eat them along with a burger? Like the Squeeze Inn fries back in the day, these are better shared by two or three people.

Some self-promotion, but this place
has a loyal following, anyway.

Wait a minute. I am now hearing something about resetting the system or something. These clowns are talking about Rock Band—the video game! How could three grown men be so serious about a video game? Lame, says the guy who runs around town on a scooter writing about burgers.

We are a nation of excess, especially when it comes to food. This burger and these ridiculous (and fantastic) fries are emblematic of America’s, and my, problem. I am reminded of this every time I pick up a fork or look in the mirror.

Since Burger Scoot does not have a rating system like the excellent Burger Junkies, my ratings are based on how the burger tastes at a particular moment, which makes comparisons difficult and certainly not scientific. (By the way, check out Burger Junkies’ review of the Flaming Grill Café’s Hoser’s Monster Sirloin Burger). Still, I would have to place this one at the top. Maybe I would give it the highest rating if I did not have a nagging feeling in a taste test I would prefer the elegance of Ella’s Grilled Ella Hamburger to this sensory orgy of this burger, but it's a close one, and you can wear cutoffs and a t-shirt to the Flaming Grill Café. You can also rap about your "band" and almost not sound like a loser.

The “1/2 lb. Kobe Jalapeño Jack” came to $10.99, the fries $5.49, and iced tea $1.99. That is a big bill for such a casual place, but I would argue that it is worth every penny. I do not know anything about business, but I would guess the price of the burger and fries has a lot to do with the menu. The Flaming Grill Café has all sorts of exotic fair: alligator, frog, tilapia, ahi, python, and three kinds of beef—Kobe-style, longhorn, and Angus (Niman Ranch)—as well as chicken and turkey. It also has vegetarian alternatives.