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.

Jocko is No Grease Monkey!

Picking up my ride from
Barber's Shop Automotive

As I write this post, I just got my Vespa out of the shop. The speedometer cable was broken and needed replacing. I rode it for a while in this state figuring I could just stay with the flow of traffic and I would be good, but realized the cable also controls the odometer. So with the mileage frozen, I felt this was a more urgent problem that needed fixing.

Initially, I took this opportunity to get to know my scooter more intimately, and—no matter how pathetic it may sound from a middle-aged man—to make my master-mechanic dad proud and fix the thing myself. Outside of adding gas or oil to a car, motorcycle, or lawn mower, I have never done any kind of engine work. The fear of tearing something apart and finding a bolt, washer, or something that looks even more important on the garage floor; or turning over an engine I just worked on only to hear something sound terribly wrong, has prevented me from doing anything “manly” when it comes to getting my hands greasy. My kind of greasy hands business is eating burgers and Jimboy’s tacos.

Where does it say "For Mechanics Only"?

Of course, it was easy doing the first step in this DIY process—I bought a Haynes service and repair manual for my Vespa. I found the Piaggio/Vespa Scooters Service and Repair Manual to be utterly confusing. The kind souls on the Modern Vespa forum were a little more helpful, but in the end, I chickened out.

In one of my very first posts, I wrote about how Vespa Club of Sacramento (VCOS) members fix up their own vintage Vespas. I had always hoped to do this one day, but my idle fantasy has had a head-on collision with reality. I can now state (albeit not proudly) I will never buy and fix up a vintage scooter. Who needs those snobs at the VCOS and, for that matter, the Burgundy Topz, anyway! (sniffle)

A "Blue Prynt" for a Big Burger
While my ride was not in the shop, I took the time to do a scooterless burger review.

I cannot explain why the parking lot always
is near vacant when I ride or walk by here.

Blue Prynt Restaurant and Bar, located at 815 11th Street in downtown Sacramento, only a few blocks from where I work, is another one of my white tablecloth burger ventures. Blue Prynt, however, is not as intimidating as Ella’s, Chops, or Grange. The food is reasonably priced and on the rustic American side, which makes it approachable to a lowly State worker like Jocko.

Lunch was very slow on the day I checked it out, so I had an overly-attentive waiter. One good thing about having a waiter hovering over me is that he could avoid the rotten timing that so many, far more busy waiters have when they ask me if everything is alright just when I have taken a bite of food. On the other hand, I wanted to say in frustration, “Hey man, can I take at least two sips without you continually refreshing my water and iced tea? Take a break; I see there is a game on at the bar. Who’s playing? Have a drink while you are checking.”

The Half Pound Burger. The
toothpick is barely hanging on.

Blue Prynt’s contribution to the world of the Great American Sandwich is the “Half Pound Burger.” At first blush, there is nothing distinctive about this burger besides its girth (they even shamelessly announce on the menu the use of Thousand Island dressing). What makes the burger worth eating is the excellent and formidable Del Monte hand-pressed and seasoned patty coupled with fresh veggies and tomato, and the house-made bun that was so good I could have eaten one alone without butter.

The fries were crispy and very good. The burger and fries came with a pepperoncini, which was an interesting touch, but that may have been a mistake—the menu calls for a pickle spear. The burger fries and iced tea come to $12.37 (compare that to other expensive burger scoot posts). Blue Prynt’s Half Pound Burger is worth checking out again.

Scooter Cannonball Run 2012
One last comment: The Scooter Cannonball Run 2012 began on Sunday April 22. This fun, cross-continental race has fascinated me since I became interested in scootering two years ago. Follow the eight-day race at the the official site: Scooter Cannonball Run 2012 or on FollowRide for graphical tracking using Google Maps. I dream of doing the Cannonball Run someday, but for now, even a trip to Auburn seems worlds away. The longest round trip I have logged to date is about 24 miles, and that hurt. Baby steps, Jocko, baby steps.

Eureka! I have found the perfect scooter club for me!

No, not this fine looking ride. Click on the link below!
http://www.examiner.com/road-driver-in-national/poll-the-beautiful-women-of-vespa-and-the-scooters-they-love

Chasing the Mini Burger Truck

*** News Flash: Mini Burger is now Krush Burger: http://www.krushburger.com/. ***

I don’t know where I first heard about the Mini Burger Truck, but I was immediately intrigued by the idea. Readers should not take this post’s title literally—I never really chased the Mini Burger Truck around town; rather, I kept tabs on the truck’s whereabouts via its Twitter (@MiniBurgerTruck), which informs all its followers where the truck is currently parked and where it plans to go next.

Monday through Friday, I would log on to Twitter and hope the Mini Burger Truck would park within walking distance of my workplace. It did a few times, but I was never available on those days. The truck often parked off Exposition Blvd., in the REI parking lot, on Saturdays, and that was where I first sampled the Mini Burger Truck’s fare.

When I pulled up to the truck, I noticed a long line of people waiting to place their orders and another large group of people milling about, waiting for their food. No one was complaining, however; the order line moved along at a good clip, and the completed orders were delivered briskly. This was impressive, since only three people were working in the truck, and one of them was solely taking orders, boxing up completed orders, and handing them out.

Mini Burger’s menu is conveniently painted on the truck. I ended up ordering a “2 Pack”—any two burgers from menu, which included three regular mini burgers and two specialty mini burgers. I ordered one of the regulars, the Cowbell, and one of the specialty burgers, the Ninja Burger. I also ordered fries and a bottled iced tea, totaling $12, which is quite pricey if you’re thinking this truck is nothing but a traditional “roach coach.”


The Cowbell. That's crispy onions
and jalepenos sticking out!



The Cowbell was very good; juicy Black Angus beef, with the distinctive pancetta and smoked Gouda cheese on top of the patty, made for an excellent departure from the standard hamburger. To top off this gourmet version of a cowboy burger, Mini Burger adds crispy onions and jalapenos. Remarkably, the jalapenos were not very spicy. (Whether that is a good thing depends on one’s tolerance for spicy food.) Served on a little bun, the Cowbell was drenched in an excellent combination of House dressing and barbecue sauce.

The Ninja Burger was even better, with its grilled Korean short ribs standing in for a beef patty, giving it a distinctive sweet taste and just the right amount of pea shoots and Asian slaw. Crispy scallions wonderfully complemented the sweet meat, and the sriracha aioli gave this unique burger a touch of heat, but not too much.



Mini Burger Truck packages their
food to go for obvious reasons.

  The fries were plentiful, flavorful, and salty, but also a bit soggy. I enjoyed an excellent bottle of iced tea, called Harney & Sons Organic Black. After this lunch, I began searching for grocery stores that carried this excellent tea; it is the best black tea I have ever tasted. Waxing on about the tea served at a burger place is tangential, I realize, but this stuff was wonderful.

On a subsequent visit, I ordered two other burgers: the OG Burger and Da Philly. Both had excellent ingredients, but they were undercooked. The only burger I have not tried is the seasonal Specialty, which is currently the Fish & Chips burger. The burger patty is fried cod, with fries as the coating. On my second visit, I tried the Sweet Potato Tater Tots and found they were much better than the regular fries.

The Mini Burger Truck is not a completely unique idea; checking out Sacramento Mobile Food, known as SactoMoFo, reveals over 15 lunch trucks or “mobile kitchens.” You can find additional information on the blog Food Truck Nerd, although it focuses on Bay Area trucks.

Of course, with a chuck wagon affair, the food is intended to be eaten at home or in one’s car. I ate next to my scooter in the parking lot, however, so the shortage of napkins was annoying. It is obviously very difficult to monitor and replenish such items, including bottled or canned drinks and accoutrements, when the staff members are located directly over these items.

If you enjoy mobile kitchens, you should be aware they could disappear. California Assembly bill AB1678, if passed by the Legislature, would ban these trucks from parking 1500 feet from schools. This would mean the Mini Burger Truck, and other food trucks, could not park in more than 60 percent of Sacramento's urban areas. The restriction would be far worse in cities like San Francisco. Call your legislator!



I'd be pimping this great iced tea if I minded the label.



A Big (Biker) Burger

There are a handful of places in the Sacramento area to get a great burger: the insanely great and expensive burger at Ella Dining Room, the burgers found at Dad’s Kitchen, Jaime’s, Pizza Rock, Squeeze Inn, Scott's Burger Shack, and many places I have not covered yet. Out of all the heavy hitters, Jerry's Tumbleweed Inn (10083 Folsom Blvd. Rancho Cordova) is the biggest, if not quite the best. I have tried twice before to visit "the Weed," as those who frequent the bar call it, but have arrived too late—the very small kitchen of this bikers' bar is open for breakfast and lunch but closes around 4 p.m. Last week I finally had a chance to order what their menu calls the "Famous" Tumbleweed Burger. Whoever added the quotes to "Famous" obviously does not understand irony (see The Blog of Unnecessary Quotation Marks) or lacks a command of English grammar.

Since the Tumbleweed is a bikers' bar and I ride a scooter, I felt a little awkward parking my mint green ride next to a of couple of black Harleys. I did not know what to expect when I walked into the bar. Was I going to get dirty looks or was I going to be treated more like Rob Petrie when he ran into some bikers at a hamburger stand in an episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show.

My first impression was quietness as I walked in; it was dark, like many bars, a few people stop what they were saying to look at me, a rough looking woman who looks like she is in her 50s, wearing a Levi jacket brushes by me as I approach the bar. From behind me she selects a Rolling Stones song from the jukebox and, when the song starts, she shouts "F___ yeah!” I shouldn’t have been so surprised at the overt display of profanity—walking in from the parking lot I noticed one of the Harley’s had a license plate frame that proudly read “F___ daht!!” Much calmer conversations all around me are peppered with profanity as I approach the bartender to place an order.

“What the f___ did you do that for, Bill?” “F___ if I know.” (Laughter.)

and...

“How the f___ are you doing these days, Sue? “Okay, but f___, my old man can’t stop whining about his f___ed-up leg.”

The bartender looks me up and down and tells me to have a seat and someone will take my order. I am expecting a big mean guy to come up to my table (selected strategically near the door) and ask, "Well faggot, what the f___ do you want?" Instead, a guy in his 30s (most of the folks here appear to be in their 50s and 60s) asks me in a soft, friendly voice what do I want. He is wearing a black Jack Daniels baseball cap with the bill bent unevenly upwards. I think it looks goofy, but the same guy who told me to check this place out wears a Pittsburgh Pirates cap with the bill bent in the same fashion. It is the mark of a rider. (The bill gets that way when riders sit on their caps.)

So I order the "Famous" Tumbleweed Burger. When it arrives, I cannot believe it. The burger is a one-pound, hand-formed patty that is grilled down to about 3/4 of a pound. The cook confirmed this when he came out and greeted me on his way out as I was about halfway through swallowing this mastodon. The one-pound raw wad of hamburger he hand forms has "plenty of fat in it,” he says, and you can taste it. (BTW, fat is a good thing for all of you sirloin burger fools!) The cook must have taken an interest in me—being the only guy who was wearing a purple Land's End Oxford instead of the ubiquitous t-shirt and black leather vest. I guess it was either strike up a conversation with this odd ball or beat the crap out of him.


The burger comes with a thick slice of raw white onion, three dill pickle chips, and what looks like a quarter of a head of iceberg lettuce. (Overstatement.) I ordered my burger with pepper jack cheese. The slice of cheese was a quarter of an inch thick! (No overstatement.) All of this was on a very sturdy bun. I rarely cut my burgers in half, but I had to make an exception in this case. Still, some of the tomato and lettuce spilled on to my plate with the first couple of bites.

See, I wasn’t exaggerating about the chunk of cheese!

The burger, like all the other items on the red-meat heavy lunch menu, comes a la carte, except for a redundant pickle spear. I ordered a side of very chunky red potato salad that was very good. I could not find the salt and pepper shakers until I noticed the single-serving size plastic Sutter Home wine bottles on the table had been fashioned into shakers--clever, but not very efficient. Altogether, with a horrible-tasting iced tea, the bill came to a reasonable $10 or so.

It is easy to get excited about this burger if you are a more- is- better kind of burger enthusiast. I am, but I still prefer innovation over tradition and the only thing novel about this burger is its sheer size. Still, the quality of elements that go into this burger—most notably the beef—is excellent.

I noticed when writing this post that the size element was similar to the Distillery’s burger, but the quality level of the "Famous" Tumbleweed Burger is much higher. When I reported to my wife about the size of the burger, she rolled her eyes. Five hours after eating the burger, the idea of eating dinner made me groan—I ended up eating very late. I will definitely return to Jerry’s Tumbleweed Inn for the "Famous" Tumbleweed Burger, with scooter, trimmed beard, Oxford shirt, and all. I just have to make sure we have no plans for dinner.