Across California's Central Valley
Oakland to Sacramento, California on a Zero electric motorcycle
[This is Chapter 4. The story begins here]
July 12, 2016 — Oakland, California
After bidding farewell to Tom and Nancy, I find the nearest ramp onto Interstate 80 and make my way east. I could, of course, take this one road all the way to New York City, but where’s the fun in that?
There’s traffic through the exurban sprawl of the Bay Area but it eventually yields to rolling green hills. Across the Alfred Zampa Memorial Bridge and the land turns brown. I exit the freeway and head to Vallejo to search for the ferry terminal that Wyman arrived at. According to the apps that I am using, there’s a car charging station at Vallejo’s City Hall. I’m not even 30 miles into the day but it’s always good to try to charge while stopped.
I turn into a large parking lot and wonder where in the world the charging station is. But instead of panicking or giving up, I continue to follow the phone’s navigation as it directs me frantically, “In 50 feet turn left…turn left…in 50 feet turn left…turn left…you have arrived at your destination” and I find myself in the lot between the City Hall and the County Library. It must be here somewhere. I make a slow loop and find the charging station right next to the mayor's parking spot. After plugging in and making sure that the bike is properly charging, I set off for a walk while the bike charges. The place seems so official and lacking in any coffee, so I walk across the large parking lot and amble over to the ferry station a quarter mile away.
A steady breeze coming off the water knocks the edge off the heat as young folk walk in groups of two and more on the promenade along the Napa River. "That's nice," I think to myself, "getting out and enjoying the day." And then I realize that they're all staring at their phones playing Pokemon Go.
Across the river, the hulking frames of shipping cranes point towards the sky while small watercraft ply the wind-chopped waters. The ferry arrives and lets off passengers at a terminal much too new to have received Wyman, still I imagine him here all those years ago, feeling the same sun and the same breeze come off the bay. I head back to the bike, which is fully charged, and chat with a fellow in an electric Volkswagen Golf waiting for his turn. He's an early adopter to the life electric; he's also got an electric boat. I get back on the road and climb soft hills the color of straw.
May 17, 1903 — Vallejo, California
"For thirteen miles out of Vallejo the road was a succession of land waves; one steep hill succeeded by another, but the motor was working like clockwork and covered the distance in but a few moments over the hour, and in the face of a wind the force ot which was constantly increasing. The further I went the harder blew the wind. Finally it actually blew the motor to a standstill~ I promptly dismounted and broke off the muffler. The added power proved equal to the emergency, and the wind ceased to worry."
George A Wyman
Wyman’s California motor bicycle produced only 1.5 horsepower, less than the Vespa that Audrey Hepburn rode to fame in the 1953 film “Roman Holiday.” That Vespa made over twice the horsepower (3.2 HP) from a motor that was half the size of Wyman’s 200cc California. A modern 50cc Vespa like the Primavera model is intended for urban use and makes over 4 horsepower, while the smallest modern motorcycles with 250cc motors make around 25 horsepower. Even those struggle to keep pace with modern highway traffic. Wyman wasn’t on a highway, of course, because they did not exist yet.
"My next dismount was rather sudden. While going well and with no thought of the road I ran full tilt into a patch of sand. I landed ungracefully, but unharmed, ten feet away. The fall, however broke my cyclometer and also cracked the glass of the oil cup in the motor - damage which the plentiful use of tire tape at least temporarily repaired. Entering the splendid farming country of the Sacramento Valley, it is easy to imagine this the garden spot of the world. Magnificent farms, well-kept vineyards and a profusion of peach, pear, and almond orchards line the road; and that scene so common to Californians' eyes and so odd to visitors'- great gangs of pigtailed Chinese at work with the rake and hoe - is everywhere observable."
George A Wyman
The land flattens and the sky grows as we enter the fertile Central Valley. Wyman rode alongside peach, pear, and almond orchards and dealt with roads flooded by the spring thaw; I ride on I-80, the main corridor between the Bay Area and the state’s capital. If you can forget the last time that you were stuck in traffic and put yourself in the mind of someone from 1903, modern highways are inconceivable, a triumph of engineering, efficiency, and mobility as it vaults effortlessly across bays and broad plains. Wyman would have been amazed at the smoothness of the pavement and the speed of the cars, trucks, and motorcycles on it, Radial tires, disk brakes, air conditioning[1], radios, GPS, power windows, cupholders—all of this would have astounded him.
But that efficiency comes at a price; riding on the highway is mind-numbingly boring, soul stealing even. In just a couple of miles, my eyelids are kettle bells and the heat that sits in the Central Valley and makes all those fruits and vegetables grow so wonderfully saps my strength. I've barely started my trip and am already tired…how the hell am I going to make it to New York?
My plan was to only stop for Wyman waypoints and charges but I am nowhere near either of those things but I can’t keep my eyes open. I have to stop. I pull off the interstate at the next exit to look for a coffee shop and stumble into the Happy Donut in Vacaville. The place looks like it hasn't been updated since the 80s but it's air conditioned and it has coffee and donuts so I don't complain. The lone employee sits behind the counter staring at her phone and is not entirely happy to see a lone customer…me…enter the shop. I make no attempt at small talk while I order my coffee and donut. The lone employee falls back into her phone while I caffeinate in silence. After a short break, I step back into the heat of the day and press onward.
"At Davisville, 59 miles from Vallejo, those always genial and well meaning prevaricators, the natives, informed me that the road to Sacramento, which point I had set as the day's destination, was in good shape: and though I knew that in many places the Sacramento River, swollen by the melting snow of the Sierras, had, as is the case each year, overflowed its banks. I trustingly believed them. Alas! for human faith. Eight miles from Davisville the road lost itself in the overflowing river. The water was too deep to navigate on a motor bicycle or any other bicycle, so I faced about and retraced the road for four miles, or until I reached the railroad tracks."
George A Wyman
Sometime during the intervening years, the Davisville post office dropped the "ville" from its name and now this college town is known simply as Davis. I stop at the train station to admire the Mission/Spanish Revival style station with its thick, adobe-colored walls, tile roof, heavy timber, and sturdy arches and wonder if it saw Wyman pass through. Alas, it was built in 1914 and at just over 100 years old is too young. While taking photos, I'm approached by a man asking for $10 to help pay for a train ticket. He's got a story about a job interview in San Francisco the next day. Getting that job will help him turn his life around, he says. I’m skeptical but he persists. I ask to see ID. He takes out his wallet. He's nearly my age but looks fifteen years younger. Whether or not his story is true, I feel bad for a man that's at a place in his life where he goes asking strangers at train stations for a hand. I give him $10 and wish him good luck.
"The river and its tributaries, and for several miles the lowlands, are spanned by trestlework, on which the rails are laid. The crossties of the roadbed proper are not laid with punctilious exactitude, nor are the intervaling spaces leveled or smoothed. They make uncomfortable and wearying walking: they make bicycle riding of any sort dangerous when it is not absolutely impossible. On the trestles themselves the ties are laid sufficiently close together to make them ride-able – rather "choppy" riding, it is true, but much faster and less tiresome than trundling. I walked the road-bed; I "bumped it" across the trestles and that night, the 17th, I slept in Sacramento, a day's journey of 82 miles and slept soundly."
George A Wyman
In a pattern that would repeat itself several times on his journey, Wyman would retreat to the train tracks when the roads were impassable. To our modern minds, especially those that have driven on New York's Canal Street or on the potholed streets of Boston or Detroit, this is nothing less than crazy. Imagine roads so bad that riding on the railroad tracks seems like a sensible option. And remember, we're not talking about a modern motorcycle with a modern suspension, we're talking about what is basically a bicycle with a motor attached to it.
Imagine taking an old bicycle from your garage or basement…the oldest one that you can find, something like an old Schwinn Varsity. Now go out to the shed and find an old push lawn mower with one of those ubiquitous Briggs & Stratton motors, the older the more authentic. Pull the motor off and weld it to the bicycle. Get an old leather belt from your closet (you might need to stitch two together end to end) and fashion a drive system that goes from the motor to a hoop that you've attached to the rear wheel. You've just made a modern day version of Wyman's 1902 California motor bicycle. Actually, it is more advanced, with better wheels incorporating metal rims instead of wood, better tires, better brakes, a sturdier frame made out of better metals, and a more powerful engine.
You can actually build a motor bicycle much like this but without having to ruin your favorite leather belts; Whizzer has been making motor kits that you can attach to your Schwinn or Raleigh since the 1930s. Riff Addams, another modern adventurer inspired by Wyman’s journey, commemorated the 100th anniversary of the trip by riding a Whizzer powered motor bicycle along the same route. Addams built up an old bicycle frame from 1905 with parts sourced from members of the motor-assisted bicycling community, added a 2 HP Whizzer motor, and shoved off from Lotta’s Fountain wearing a wool suit, tall boots, and riding gloves just like Wyman would have. Addams could not ride his motor bicycle on the highway, so his father followed along in a chase vehicle and shuttled the bike over the highway sections.
In contrast to Wyman’s trip across the flooded Central Valley, Interstate 80 carries me effortlessly to Sacramento. From the leafy banks of the Sacramento River I admire the mustard colored Tower Bridge on my right, the hulking metal truss I Street Bridge on my left, and an old riverboat on the far riverbank. Beyond lies the modern Sacramento skyline. Young folk walk in small clumps along the path, staring at their phones, playing Pokemon Go. Down by the riverbank, a man fishes while two teens cool off in the river. All of it except for the river itself came after Wyman. There is no trace of him here in this city of nearly half a million.
I cross the I Street Bridge and head to downtown Sacramento where there must be a business convention in town because it's wall to wall khakis and knit polo shirts. I Google for hotels and start making phone calls. I have the same hotel reservation conversation nearly every night of the trip.
"Hi…do you have a room for tonight?…You do?….Great. How much? That works. One more question…I have an electric motorcycle and need to charge it overnight. Do you have an outlet outside your building that I can plug into?"
[long pause on the other end of the line]
"…I just need a regular household outlet, like the kind you plug a vacuum or soda machine into…"
[shorter pause as they process what I just said]
Eventually, they get it and usually put me on hold as they go outside to check or ask their manager. To a person, they seem eager to try and accommodate this unusual request.
But there are no rooms available within a mile of downtown. I make reservations on the outskirts of town but have a plate of ribs at Sandra Dee's before I go. After dinner, I hop on I-80 and boogie to East Sacramento in the fading light. I let the Zero stretch its legs and it obliges with effortless bursts of speed. I check in and the Zero spends the night charging in the company of a soda machine.
[1] Willis Carrier had invented the air conditioner just a year earlier, in 1902, but it was invented for controlling humidity at the printing plant that he worked at in Buffalo, NY.