Davey G. Johnson

03/23/2019

My friend Craig once opined that old Tonti-framed Moto Guzzis are nothing so much as trains. Tonti-framed or not, the best Guzzis do have a fundamentally locomotive power to them, from my old 850 T3 to my relatively-recent Griso. The recent smallblock bikes tend to be a bit less trainlike; they don’t take a set in a corner like the old Tonti big-block bikes. The California Touring, however, has it all. A diesel-electric-like idle, a great thronk of midrange that makes you forget that it works up high, too, and a chassis that eases into place in corners, remaining implacable while holding a line.

No rail line runs directly from Calexico, on the Mexican border, up to Monterey. Handily, the Goose goes where I point it, as long as I remember to top off the tank every 120- odd miles. From the razor-wire fence splitting Calexico from Mexicali, I steered the bike north on SR-111 (no Love Missile jokes, please), rounded the Salton Sea on SR-86, stopped in Salton City so I could get that great song named for the place stuck in my head, then grabbed dinner at . The steak frites were divine. I am bringing here for one of the numerous steaks I owe him.

The next morning, I struck out from Palm Springs for Monterey, slicing through the San Emigdios on Cuddy Valley, taking 33 through the oilfields, and then clipping the top of the Carrizo Plain on 58. Normally the plain’s nigh abandoned, and I like it that way. But the hillsides abutting the plain on the west side are awash in color right now, so everyone’s out trying to get a piece of the superbloom. Which, I admit, is pretty amazing, but maybe not quite as good as Eric Bloom. D. boon, after all, was not Superbloom, then Richard Hell, Joe Strummer, and John Doe. Still, I like to imagine old d. bounding through the fields, perhaps yelling, “TOADIES!”

The rain arrived 70 miles south of Salinas, falling on the roof of the Quail Lodge as I wait for the off-brand NyQuil to take me away. The train left for San Francisco today. I was on it. It wouldn’t leave without me.

03/16/2019

Much more to say about this shortly. Philippe and the crew at did a killer job on my new Signet-X.

03/11/2019

The Mint’s been gone for 31 years, absorbed into Binion’s, across Fremont Street’s cavalcade of lower-middle-American grotesquerie from where I’m typing this. One wonders what John C. Frémont — early booster of General U.S. Grant, US Senator, first GOP presidential candidate (who lost to janky James Buchanan), and tight bro of Kit Carson — did to deserve the ignominy of his name hovering above the “Fremont Street Experience”, but that’s Las Vegas for you. Names outlive their context here.

Such is the case with the Mint 400, a desert race that began in ’68, died after ’89, returned eleven years ago.

BFGoodrich Tires invited me out to breathe dust at this year’s running; I’m not one to say no to Vegas if I don’t have to leave my hotel room or have the opportunity to get out into the desert while I’m there. The race itself spans miles of desert — a lap of the course this year was about eighty miles, starting in Primm, then running northeast on the southern side of I-15 beyond Jean and back, making the most of this particular basin at the edge of North America’s Basin and Range province.

This time of year, the Mojave can pack a serious chill, and the final day of the Mint brought frigidity with it. I’ve been back from the race for four hours and my toes haven’t warmed up yet. Bear in mind, I took the same SOREL boots to the Canadian Arctic in December and fared well. But to be out in the desert, away from the throngs, as trophy trucks and ripped by feet away stoked my inner kid; reminded me of how much I loved driving Class 9 and Class 11 cars out in Barstow a year or so ago. Screw the cold.

Road & Track Magazine offered me a few bucks if I could snag competitor Jenson Button for an interview. I never saw the guy. Button’s star power aside, Justin Lofton was the hero of the day, taking his third Mint victory, making him the only triple victor in a race whose past winners include Parnelli Jones, Ivan Stewart, and Malcolm Damn Smith. Perhaps one day they’ll name a Vegas street for him. Perhaps one day I’ll race here, too.

The Mint 400 Justin Lofton @ Primm, Nevada

03/10/2019

Mint 400 today. The only drugs I have on me are coffee and 4mg ni****ne lozenges. Not convinced I’m doing this right.

02/25/2019

On October 20th of 2015, I was on my Moto Guzzi V7, heading to CVS on a warm Sacramento autumn evening, when I was clipped as I turned into the parking lot by a teenager more concerned with what was happening on her phone than with what was going on on the road. The tap highsided me and sent me sliding down the street, first on my face, then on my back. Wound up with a broken foot and leg. Thanks to my Arai and Dainese gear, things were not nearly as awful as they could have been, but the bike was totaled and I was largely off my feet for six weeks. As soon as I could walk without a boot, I flew up to Seattle, stayed with Sam Smith, picked up a new Moto Guzzi Griso, and rode it home. At that point, I was better able to ride a motorcycle than walk.

A month or so later, I reconvened with Sam and our pal Michael Chaffee for a multi-day meander from San Francisco up to around Hayfork, with stops in Cloverdale and Fort Bragg. My parents were within months of dying, the hit was still pretty fresh in my mind, and it wasn’t the easiest time for me. But being out there on 128 and 1 with Sam and Chaf was about as good a medicine as there is.

I shot this while Chaffee was trying to sort out whatever the hell was going on with the carbs on the new-to-him BMW R90S Sam had picked up in Arizona. We’d just finished the run from Cloverdale up to 1 south of Mendocino, which my dad always loudly announced as “The BOONville Road!” To him, it was the second-to-last leg of our trips to Fort Bragg. To me, it always meant impending carsickness. As a middle-aged motorcyclist, I relish every shot I get at that stretch of California State Route 128, and I always think of my dad, Sam, and Chaf when I’m up there. It is, to put it mildly, a good place.

02/23/2019

Stoked to be seeing Bob Mould in a week. Here's a piece I wrote about driving across California in a Mustang to catch him back in 2016.

The perfect excuse for a road trip: Having a Mustang GT California Special in California. Read about the journey and see images at Car and Driver.

02/22/2019

My pal Jeff Utterback — one of the unquestionable originals of the early SoCal BMX scene, welder extraordinaire, early member of WASP(!), drag racer, and all-around excellent human being — has, along with his wife Anna, started a senior animal rescue called Ma’s Top o’ the World. To raise funds, he’s been reissuing shirts and decals from his days as the “J” in GJS BMX.

Bicycle motocross nerds of a certain age know how well-made the old GJS stuff was, and during the BMX boom of the ‘80s, a who’s who of the sport rode GJS bikes at one time or another. Have a look at https://gjsbmx.bigcartel.com if you’re an aging BMX kid like me (or a young one with respect for the sport’s history) and want to contribute to a great cause.

I picked up a t-shirt and some decals, one of which has landed in a place of pride on my Cotic SolarisMAX full-rigid 29er, which is as close a thing to a gigantic BMX bike as I’ve ever ridden.

02/22/2019

Without a doubt, this is the most coke-party watch I own. There’s scant info on these Buler-built, Bertone-designed, Hughes LED-powered watches, and much of what is out there feels like it could be misinformation. But whatever. It’s stupid-cool, even with the sketchy history.

02/21/2019

Not Richard, but Dick.

Every motorcycle is built with tools, but how many tool brands can claim they’re descended from a motorcycle company? King Dick tools can—from Abingdon.

02/20/2019

I just put big miles on this Wrangler Unlimited Sahara. Sacramento to Scottsdale, Scottsdale to Santa Fe, Santa Fe to Denver, Denver to Moab, a run over Hurrah Pass and back, then Moab to Sacto through enough ice and snow to make Led Zeppelin freeze up in the middle of "Immigrant Song". Seriously, it hit -16 somewhere east of Ely on US 50. I was a little terrified, given the emptiness of 50 and the severity of the conditions. A minor mistake could've conceivably been fatal, but the Sahara was as sure-footed as they come. They're coming to pick it up later today, and I really don't want to let it go.

On the bright side, the generalized greatness of the JLU Sahara has me anxious for some seat time in a Gladiator Overland, which I'm almost 100% positive will replace my e-Golf later this year. I'm paring down my fleet, and the Gladiator seems like it'll cover all my bases rather perfectly.