By Tom Neal
Bigfoot Trails Basecamp | Independent Adventure Media

Originally published inFreedom, the ABATE of Washington newsletter.

Reader Screen at Ralph “Sonny” Barger’s Memorial Service in Stockton

Ralph “Sonny” Barger was a legend in motorcycle culture. Love him or hate him, you have to admit, he changed the world of motorcycles and clubs.

It was a sad day when I heard he passed. I never got a chance to meet Sonny in person, but I did communicate with him a few times online. He was a very helpful and thoughtful person, but I also treated him with respect, therefore he showed respect back, just like any of us would like.

So when I found out about the service being held in Stockton, I knew I had to go to pay my respects and show support for Zorana, Sonny’s wife.

I was not able to get out of work the Friday before the service, but was able to take the Monday and Tuesday after off, so I planned a ride to Stockton, then head over to Reno to visit another legend, Mondo Porras of Denver’s Choppers.

Friday night, I got off work at 6 p.m. My bike was packed and ready, so I ran home to say goodbye to the wife and dog, and to my closest friends who had shown up to say goodbye.

I was on the road out of Shelton at 7 p.m.

A quick octane stop for the bike and me, and we were on our way.

Traffic was light all the way through Portland into Woodburn, Oregon, where I made another quick fuel stop. Just a gas ’n go. No time to waste.

I-5 was quiet for a Friday night, at least for a bike on a mission. I had to be in Stockton by noon on Saturday to get into the hotel, drop my gear, clean up, and be at the service by 2 p.m.

Around 11 p.m., I rolled into Roseburg, Oregon, and ran into my first clusterfuck.

Try to find fuel in Roseburg.

The first gas station I stopped at was closed. Being from Washington, it didn’t bother me. I know how to pump my own gas, so I swiped my card and got a dribble.

Well, that sucks.

I found 91 octane, ethanol-free, and was super excited until it wouldn’t feed me any, but it charged me 18 cents to spit in my tank.

Hmmm.

Maybe the regular 91 octane corn will work.

Twenty-six cents later, and another little sputter of fuel, I guess they shut the pumps down too.

On to the next gas station!

I got fueled up, grabbed another 5-Hour Energy for the morning, and found a cheap motel to crash at for a few hours around midnight.

Saturday morning, 5 a.m., I got up, loaded the bike, and pushed it down to the street to fire it off.

As I took off from Roseburg, it was just below 40 degrees.

Not to worry, though. About 20 miles later, I ran into a wall of fog, and the temperature dropped.

As I rolled through the passes on I-5 in Oregon and watched the sun come up, it was almost spiritual.

I love southern Oregon. Even the I-5 corridor is beautiful.

I stopped in Ashland for fuel. While gassing up and chugging the 5-Hour Energy, the gas station attendant asked me where I was heading.

I told him Stockton, California.

“Ooooo, that’s a rough town.”

I had never stopped there before, so I laughed it off and told him to have a great day as I rolled out of Ashland, bound for California.

I had crossed the Siskiyous a few times, but never on the scooter. Not sure I want to do it in a cage ever again.

This may have been the first time I ever enjoyed running on I-5.

The road was still empty, and I was able to run hard through the mountains.

It was awesome.

California didn’t really have much going all the way into Sacramento that I can recall, but then again, from the California border, it was all a blur.

I vaguely remember another gas stop in northern California. Someone else asked where I was going.

Again, when I said “Stockton,” they cringed and said:

“Good luck!”

Now, I’m the guy who doesn’t really care for technology for the most part.

Yes, I have a smartphone, but only because it houses my camera, my music, and I can text or email my wife as I make my 15-minute fuel stops.

I looked at the map to see where I needed to go. I got off I-5 onto I-80 East to Highway 99 South.

Simple enough, right?

Nope.

I got all jacked up after getting on I-80, so I exited the highway in “Sketchville,” pulled into a liquor store, grabbed the smartphone, and brought up the directions on the Waze app or whatever the thing is called.

I popped the earbuds back in so she could talk to me and tell me where to go.

Normally I wouldn’t care about getting lost, but again, I was running a bit later than I wanted to, so I had to get my butt to Stockton.

She got me on the right track, and I was rocking out to Moonshine Bandits radio on my Pandora app while listening to the GPS thing chime in every so often.

One feature I liked about the Waze app was that it alerted you to breakdowns ahead or police activity, which was cool for me.

As I rolled into Lodi, my music was playing, then it broke with:

“Cop ahead.”

Sure enough, the onramp had a CHP car there.

Music resumes for a few seconds.

“Cop ahead.”

Now I’m thinking the GPS is stupid. I just passed a cop.

Nope.

Another one at the next onramp.

This went on for the next 15–20 miles into Stockton.

EVERY onramp had a cop.

This was to be expected, though. I figured every police agency in the area — the whole alphabet soup — would be there from ATF, DEA, FBI, XYZ, everyone would be watching and waiting for all the bikers to do whatever horrible thing.

Surprise, motherf’ers.

It was a very peaceful event.

But that’s jumping ahead a bit.

Anyway, I rolled into Stockton, pulled into the parking lot for the hotel, and saw four cars in the lot.

No sign for the lobby.

Sketchy place.

I went inside and waited for 15 minutes. The sign on the bulletproof glass said NOT to tap cards, yell, or smack the counter to get their attention. They had a camera and would be out when they could.

After 15 minutes, I decided to cross the street for the Motel 6.

Even though I had reservations at the other place.

Motel 6 wasn’t any better.

So I went back across the street, revved the bike a bit as I stopped and shut down.

As I walked back into the lobby, I was greeted this time.

I told the gentleman behind the counter I had a room for the night and hoped to get an early check-in so I could get cleaned up before the memorial.

He said he would have to see if there was an open room.

I said I hoped there was. There were like 300-plus rooms and only four cars in the parking lot, two of which were security guards!

He got me checked in.

I dropped my gear in my room, set the AC for 62 degrees, cleaned up, and rode to the Stockton 99 Speedway for the memorial service.

I looked at Google Maps before leaving the room.

Go up one exit, turn here, turn there, look for the bikes and follow them in.

Easy enough.

I went to the next exit, turned here, and no bikes were in sight.

I waited patiently at the light.

Then a group of bikes rolled in behind me.

Not one pulled up next to me.

Well shit.

Guess I lead this one in.

Jokes on them if I get lost.

Nope.

Easy route into the Speedway.

As I was waiting in line to park the bike, I met a super-cool dude from Pennsylvania. He rode his ’78 Ironhead Sportster out the whole way, stayed at the “Rock Motel” — gravel on the side of the road — the complete trip, and was 72 years old.

We BS’d all the way up through the line to security, where they scanned our tickets.

Everyone I saw whipped out cell phones, and security was scanning the phone.

I pulled a piece of paper I printed off from home out of my tank bag.

The security dude looked at me like I was some sort of mongoloid.

I said, “I’m old school. I trust paper.”

He laughed and flagged me in.

The Sonny Barger memorial was definitely an experience I was glad I made.

Out of respect for all the patch holders, red and white and all others in attendance and not in attendance, I won’t go into specific details about the service, but I will say it was a very calm and peaceful event.

Sorry to disappoint the media who wanted more!

The count I heard was over 6,000 attendees. Patches from all over California were there, as well as Angels from different parts of the country and even a few from Italy and Germany.

I did see a few Bandidos and Red and Gold support clubs, which I thought was really cool.

I only saw one club from Washington, but again, with over 6,000 people there, I sure didn’t see it all.

The stories told by Sonny’s friends and wife were awesome and touching.

One Angel was called up to the stage but couldn’t speak. He was so heartbroken. All the love being thrown out to him was another touching sight.

The big screen broke out with quick videos of chapters from around the world saying their goodbyes to Sonny and giving condolences to Zorana.

Again, such an AWESOME experience!

It was 103 degrees. We were all out on the asphalt at the track, which would have put the track temperature at probably 140 degrees.

Medics were called upon numerous times during the ceremony due to people dropping.

Hydration was key!

Midway through, they took a break and had the Fryed Brothers come up on stage to play a set. Then they took intermission, more service action for another hour or so, and then the Fryed Brothers came back out to wrap up the night.

Six hours had to be the longest memorial I had attended, and amazingly, the most touching for a non-family member.

Was it worth a 750-mile ride?

Hell yes!

Back at the hotel, I had to take another shower to cool down and clean up from the sweat.

After that, I was feeling a bit hungry. I hadn’t eaten yet that day, so I walked next door to Taco Bell to grab some grub.

As I left the front lobby, I saw paramedics, fire, and cops everywhere.

Then a guy on a gurney.

Blood everywhere.

I asked one of the cops what happened.

He responded, “Gun shot,” very calmly.

“Cool. Does this happen a lot here?” I asked.

“Oh yeah!” he said, and chuckled.

Well hell.

This should be fun.

I didn’t carry on this trip.

Pretty boring evening the rest of the night.

Sunday morning, I rode back up to Sacramento to meet up with a friend who rode down as well, but not with me.

We grabbed breakfast and rode Highway 50 over to Lake Tahoe and into Reno, Nevada.

I had not hit 50 in that area before, and it was another great ride.

We stopped off in Lake Tahoe for a drink and hung out for a bit before heading into Reno.

As we stood around talking about fixing the world’s problems, I looked down at my rear tire.

I could have sworn I saw tread there before I left.

Well, maybe getting a tire in Reno?

The purpose of Reno was to go meet and hang out with Mondo Porras from Denver’s Choppers.

This was the same weekend as Street Vibrations, and Mondo hosted a big bike show Friday and Saturday.

We rolled up to his shop around noon, and the door was locked.

Well damn.

Guess we’ll grab a room and come back tomorrow.

As we sat in front of the shop and figured out where we wanted to stay the night, the security system kept telling us, “You are being recorded.”

Well, we kept making smartass comments back to it until we finally decided to roll out to the hotel.

Just as we were backing up, Mondo rolled in and invited us into the shop.

Now, I can tell you, I am not into meeting “celebrities,” and don’t get the whole appeal.

But to me, Mondo is not a celebrity.

He’s a legend.

It’s people like Mondo and Sonny that changed motorcycles and the culture, and that’s cool.

I can tell you, Mondo is a very respectful guy, down to earth, and one hell of a cool dude.

He didn’t have to let us in that day.

He didn’t have to give us the tour of his shop, and the place I want to live the rest of my life in.

But he did it.

This cat was 82 years old, still worked his ass off seven days a week, but was “retired” and doing what he loved.

No more employees.

Just him, building front ends, building bikes, seeing his beautiful daughter and grandkids, and loving life.

We stayed about an hour or so, but could tell Mondo was worn out from the show, so we left and let him crash on the couch in the shop.

I couldn’t wait to go back come spring and see him again.

We found a couple scummy rooms in Reno for cheap, and upon checking in, Rob made a comment to the people behind the counter that this was a safer feeling place compared to last night.

The gal asked where we were.

When Rob told her I was in Stockton, her eyes got wide and asked, “Why? That’s a bad place to stay!”

I told her it was for a funeral, and Rob told her there was a shooting at my hotel.

She didn’t seem surprised.

We got checked in, grabbed drinks, then found some good Mexican food.

Rob said it was way better fresh, though. It wasn’t too good a couple hours later for leftovers.

Originally, we thought about going back to Denver’s Choppers, but decided to get the hell out of Reno early and head north toward home.

We had no intention of going home that day when we left, so we took it fairly easy.

Courthouse Cafe in Susanville, California, was our first stop.

Breakfast there was one of the best I had in a long time. I think it will be worth a trip down just for breakfast sometime.

We took some backroads up through California, finally catching Highway 97 into Oregon.

Some fantastic roads. Parts of it were fun, but the road surface was like riding off-road without the gravel.

Highway 97 had more traffic than anywhere else on the trip, I think, with the exception of Sacramento, until we got through Madras, Oregon, and onto Highway 197 to The Dalles.

I had been on 197 a few times before going through Maupin, but it was the first time for Rob.

What an awesome road it is.

I highly recommend it.

We dropped down into The Dalles just before dusk.

Rob recommended I continue on without him since it was only a couple-hour ride for me and six for him, and he doesn’t do well riding at night.

So we fueled up, BS’d for about an hour, then I texted my wife and told her to kick the boyfriend out.

I would be home in just a couple hours.

Riding down I-84 was pretty uneventful until I came around one bend along the river and saw the sunset with some deep, dark orange coloring.

I had to pull off and get a couple pictures.

I ride one of two ways.

Either it’s a mellow scenic ride, or balls out, stop for nothing but fuel.

The ride home was balls out, so you know the picture had to be good if I was stopping to shoot it.

All in all, it was a great ride.

No incidents on the road, minus some bee stings and shit like that.

I covered 1,800 miles in three days, and that was not pushing hard at all.

Before leaving, I was concerned if I would physically hold up. I was having major shoulder issues and had broken my hand/wrist in 18 places last summer. It never healed right.

I had been having issues riding and figured I would sell the bike.

I’m not one for short trips. I like to lay down miles, and if I can’t, I don’t want to ride.

I swapped out the bars on the bike a few weeks before the trip, so this was going to tell me if I could still ride or if I was going to turn into a civilian.

After the trip was over, I was “pain minimal,” so the bars got two thumbs up, and I continued to tear up the asphalt.

Well, after I get a new set of tires, anyway.

I still haven’t replaced that rear yet.

Ride hard, ride safe.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tom Neal is the founder of Bigfoot Trails Basecamp, an independent adventure media project built around real experiences. He’s spent most of his life around vehicles, motorcycles, racing, travel, and projects that tend to take longer and cost more than originally planned.

After decades of doing all that stuff, he’s learned that the best stories usually aren’t the ones you planned. They’re the people you meet, the places you stumble across, the things that go wrong, and the moments you never expected.

That’s what he wants to capture with BTB.

He doesn’t want to write about adventure from the outside. He wants to go experience it, then tell you what happened.

Bigfoot Trails Basecamp | Independent Adventure Media