Podcast Episode: Quail Motorcycle Gathering
Twenty mini conversations with riders, builders, racers and promoters.
Henri Boulanger is the Motorcycles Are Drugs co-host, creative director, sound engineer and composer. His first Quail Motorcycle Gathering experience, at age 21, was in May 2016, meeting Keanu Reeves in the Arch Motorcycles booth after chatting up Mert Lawwill on the green minutes before. Henri rode across the country with Gary in August 2018, capturing images and writing a review of the new Harley-Davidson Sport Glide for Cycle World magazine. I asked him to publish this week’s blog about his experience getting to the 2023 Quail, where he took a few hundred photos, drooled over nearly 200 bikes, and recorded 20 mini interviews for our latest podcast episode. Enjoy! ~ Gary B.
I love going to motorcycle shows. You get to see bikes you’ve only seen in pictures, you meet the folks who built your favorite custom bikes, and inevitably you’ll walk away rejuvenated by a sense of community and the shared wonderment for what two wheels and an engine can do for the soul. The Quail Motorcycle Gathering has never failed to facilitate that joy, and I was excited to be returning to the green.
This was the first time I’d be covering the Quail instead of simply attending, coming armed with two cameras (an aging DSLR and an even older 35mm Canon my dad used in the ‘80s) as well as some sweet new tech: a Sweetwater RØDE wireless microphone system that would allow us to interview people on the fly. At this point we’d interviewed some ten or so guests for the podcast, but most had been remote over a Zoom video conversation, and I was eager to do some on-the-ground reporting.
To make it to the media hour before the event officially opened on Saturday I would have to head out at 7 am. I went to sleep on Friday hoping I wouldn’t have to fight off the coffee-resistant mental fog that sometimes haunts my mornings. Luckily this time I was spared that battle, and saddling up my Moto Guzzi California 1100 took little time. The tires got some air, I got some caffeine. Before long I was swinging a leg over the bike, ready to head out on the year’s first big ride.
I’d briefly talked through the route with my dad, Gary, who had headed down two days prior on separate bikes with my mom, Jean. I must have been distracted because I didn’t recall his recommendation, but he had texted me the best of several paths to my destination, Carmel Valley, an often cloudy town of beautiful hills and home to the annual Quail Motorcycle Gathering.
Clicking on the link he’d sent, I was somewhat surprised to see the little blue line snake over Highway 17, an infamous local vein that winds aggressively over the Santa Cruz mountains on a mission to reach the famed surfing town on the Pacific Ocean. On a sunny day it can be a test of nerves and a constant pop quiz for one’s focus. Today the forecast called for a good amount of moisture. Yikes. Well, Papa knows best. Cinching on my backpack and strapping my camera bag to my chest, I headed south.
Coming off an unusually wet winter meant I hadn’t gone any significant distance on the big bike in a while, and I’m always cautious on that first major outing. I tend to doubt my traction and ride pretty stiffly for a couple hours until I can convince myself that I’m not going to go sliding out on the first major turn. While this doesn’t normally affect things that much, it really came into play as I plunged into the winding, narrow curves of 17. Thankful for the lessons I’ve learned over the past decade of riding, I kept calm and kept it smooth, hoping my jitters would fade quicker than usual.
To some degree they never went away, thanks to the added bonus of cold rain that rendered my field of vision smudgy and flat. Wiping away at my visor did little, and my most effective strategy involved cocking my head at an absurd angle down and to the left so I could see out of a blessedly less obscured patch of plastic above my right eyebrow. Anticipating the turns became a harrowing guessing game, and the cars seemed to be impatient with my hesitation. I climbed higher and higher through the mountain pass until I reached the summit, a stretch where the trees drop away and the clouds make their commute, socking us in with heavy dampness and about fifty feet of visibility. I slowed way down and hoped that the cars behind would understand my apprehension and not careen into me.
It was around this point I realized that my dad had accidentally sent me the address instead of the preferred route and I had foolishly clicked on the fastest and most treacherous path.
And it’s that moment on the motorcycle that has always pushed me further: when I’m a bit beyond my abilities and not having fun. When you’re holding it together and riding smoothly but swearing in your helmet, cursing the overshot corners and trying to tamp down an increasing sense of ‘I don’t have this.’ The options are always:
Pull over then continue after a bit of cool down;
Pull over and turn around;
Pull over and call a friend or a tow truck;
Just keep going.
I try to never ride beyond my abilities in a way that will lead to ruin, but there’s undoubtedly a zone just outside of one’s comfort where some real magic happens. A test of one’s riding ability, sure, but even more so a test of one’s spirit: ‘Can I continue? Can I endure this? Will I ever feel my fingertips again?’
Soaked, cold, overwhelmed, driven to make it on time, and determined to push through, I made it out of the clouds, across the summit, and into the descent. It didn’t get easier navigating the rain and the curves, but a part of me had reckoned with the depths, pushed through the misery, and emerged on the other side just as cold and wet but somehow starting to enjoy myself with the mighty Pacific Ocean on my right.
The closer I got to the Quail Lodge, the clouds began to fade and the sun began to dry me off, thawing my frigid shins and digits north of Monterey. By the time I reached the fabled Carmel Valley I felt reborn, having conquered the mountain I was never meant to conquer and ready to talk about the motorcycles that facilitate these sorts of adventures and episodes of self-discovery.
The rest of the day was spent having conversation after conversation about how lucky we all felt to have these machines in our lives, how many wonderful people they continued to bring together, and about the palpable sense of freedom that can be found in the saddle, even early in the morning, in the middle of a freezing cloud, with cars whizzing past at 60 miles per hours in the curve. Perhaps especially then.
I hope you enjoy our special episode of interviews conducted at the 2023 Quail Motorcycle Gathering. Maybe they move you to go on a ride, to fix up your bike, or call up your buddy for some two-wheeled soul-searching.
Thanks to everyone who spoke with us, listed here in order:
Fred and Lorie Saunders (Sculpture Works in Sand City, CA)
Ozley ‘Oz’ Cheek
Paul Sacoleri
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