MotoGiro di California 20 - 2025
/This year’s MGdC was a strange and shining joy, the kind that makes you grin even when your hands are sore and your seat’s worn thin. I’d had plenty of time to ready my Benelli/Motobi 125 (not without Joe T’s help though!), including the most essential luxury: the Airhawk seat cushion. The bike’s saddle is old leather and horsehide, noble and cruel, and each year the ache of “Monkey Butt” grows more convincing, and the years don’t make it easier.
The gathering at the Sonora Inn and Lumberjack, now one lively, noisy beast, felt like coming home to a family you only see once a year. All a little older, all just as wild, sharing a madness that makes us sign up again and again for two days and nearly 150 miles of riding ancient Italian singles across California’s forgotten backroads (and of course, two extra bonus days if you can fit them in).
It takes a certain good madness to sign on for 150 miles a day through California’s rough-cut heart, on machines that belong more to history than to highways. There were challenges, as always, patched roads, long climbs, and the usual surprises. The MotoGiro di California bends, but it never breaks.
Which way are we going? Doesn’t really matter when the bikes look this good.
Day One
Peaceful moments before the road had other plans.
The first day was a dance through the backroads, patched asphalt, leaning barns, open fields, and those wandering cows that stare like they know something you don’t. An excited old barn dog gave chase, tail high, pure joy in its barking. We also knew that behind us was the steady hum of the chase trucks, good souls with gas cans, spare parts, cold refreshments, and that quiet promise: “If you break, we’ve got you.”
These bikes, pre-’58 Italian singles, are temperamental things, but that’s the charm. Every vibration, every cough of the carburetor, is a small act of faith. And that Airhawk cushion Barry recommended? A miracle. (Poor straps, though. Zip ties, as always - the unsung heroes.)
Lunch was at a little country kitchen, somewhere between “hard to find” and “worth the trouble.” We swarmed in like locusts on two wheels. A few locals looked annoyed, others looked enchanted. It’s not every day you see a convoy of Ducatis, Moto Guzzis, Ceccatos, Benellis, and Parillas (just to name a few) glimmering like mechanical jewels in the sun, all in one spot!
Turned a quiet lunch stop into a full-blown bike meet.
Fueled up and half-sunburned, we pushed on. By the time we rolled into Sonora again - dusty, crusty, and aching, the promise of cold beer gleamed brighter than any trophy. The parking lot came alive with stories, tools clattering, jokes flying. Then, one by one, everyone drifted out for dinner and sleep, the sound of engines and conversation fading into the night.
Tune, sip, repeat. Aged to perfection.
A lot of oil, a lot of passion. Typical Italian.
Day Two
The next morning, fewer bikes lined up as a few riders had surrendered to fate or fatigue. The rest of us set off in pairs, spaced by minutes, the morning air cool and forgiving. And just like that, our same crew from yesterday found each other again, pulled together by the invisible magnet of rhythm and road.
Four riders, one questionable sense of direction. Turns out, fate likes Italian bikes too. R-l: Jim, Roger, Joe, alex
The route was smoother this time, kinder, though the climbs still stretched the patience of our little engines. Barry had promised “less elevation,” and I laughed thinking how relative that was. Lunch was a quiet, lovely spread: deli sandwiches, soft grass, a playful wind. We sat there in that moment, grease-stained, grinning, content.
Lunch stop… or an accidental moto show? You be the judge.
patrick, regina, and a super cool moto guzzi enthusiast.
Then came the canyon, the kind that makes your stomach drop and your breath catch. I couldn’t see the bottom, just air and road and faith. As we reached the bottom, a “Road Closed” sign jolted me, bold and worrying. Barry appeared as we doubled back, waving like a conductor in a jazz band, rerouting us with a grin. And just like that, we were flying again, sun dropping behind the hills, spirits high.
Just another day pretending California’s the Amalfi Coast.
We reached the hotel just in time for the banquet dinner, full bellies, tired hearts, engines ticking at night as they cooled. Later, the parking lot turned into a festival of its own: grappa, wine, salami, and laughter under the yellow glow of the street lamps and hotel windows. A little rough around the edges, just like us.
Just another quiet evening… surrounded by Italian art on two wheels.
As others stayed on to ride the bonus days, I packed up my gear feeling full, that peculiar blend of joy, exhaustion, and gratitude that only a ride like this can deliver.
Part pit crew, part therapy group, fueled by caffeine and carburetors.
L-R: john, joe, jason, barry, mike, Al, jim
A ride like this doesn’t just happen; it’s kept alive by the stubborn and the kind. Twenty years of the MotoGiro di California, twenty years of roaring engines, dust, and generosity. I tip my helmet to Barry Porter for keeping the spark alive, and to Patrick and Regina Hayes for their open-handed hospitality and care. Thanks too to the chase-truck crew: Jennifer Wright, Thomas Garrett, and Deborah Goldberg, as well as the kindred riders who always carry a spare and a smile. These gents in particular helped me out immensely: Al Nowocinski, Joe Tabarracci, Jim Weber, and Roger Neil — thank you.
If you ever get the chance, don’t think twice, especially if you have a bike that fits. Ride your own pace, ask questions, laugh plenty, and let California unfold beneath your tires. It’ll change the way you see the road, and maybe yourself, too.
And as I say and believe, ‘Ride a bike, be happy!’
Cheers, Alex Zangeneh Azam
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