Chasing a Dream on an Ossa Pioneer

A dramatic part of America’s Wild West, the High Sierras have long been shrouded in mystery and mystique. One small example: Alongside Highway 395 near Mammoth Lakes lies an intriguing two-track that crosses a quiet meadow and disappears into a shadowy pine forest. My mind’s eye visualized it sweeping through stands of yellow bitterbrush, ashen sage, and cowering pussypaws, and then bending right and disappearing into the ponderosas and beyond. 

But really, where did it start and, moreover, where did it lead? I never had a clue, although for decades I longed to find out. Whenever driving past, I’d muse, “If only I had my Ossa, I’d be on that.”

Numerous copies of the Ossa Pioneer, a little-known Spanish trail bike, have graced my garage since the 1970s, a credit to their easygoing competence, their torquey 244cc two-stroke engine, their comfy ergonomics, and their striking fiberglass bodywork. Though electrics and carburetion were spotty, I always just dealt with them. “An Ossa,” I’d quip to the curious few, “is like a Spanish version of a British bike.”

Recently, I finally decided to embrace the pioneer spirit to explore the pioneer West aboard a Pioneer, even though the trail of my dreams was a good 350 miles from home. That’s a long way to go to ride an old trail bike, but I’ll submit that the reason was equally about riding as it was fulfilling a latent desire. Certainly, life mirrors a trail with a beginning and an end, and prairies and woods, hill-climbs and stream crossings, fun and falls in between. Take the ride, get the T-shirt. That is, unless you never dare to climb aboard, tickle the carb, kickstart the engine, and turn the throttle in the first place.

After unloading the bike, I found that a great-running machine at sea level was a no-start in the Sierras. A plug check showed weak spark, so I replaced it and the bike fired up fine. Engaging the clutch, the rear knobby then took its first bite of sacred dirt in the meadow. But instead of luxurious, welcoming loam, I found the ancient soil dry and chalky—poor for traction but ideal for creating big, nasty dust clouds.

Like any motorcycle, the 1971 Ossa was fidgety here, with its front tire wandering and wagging the handlebar, and the rear tire pushing and straying. Before long, though, I found a sweet spot in the powerband in third gear, where the engine created its own unique “wall of sound” from the moaning intake, ringing cylinder fins, and popping expansion chamber, softened by the Pioneer’s trademark “chrome pickle” silencer. 

Meanwhile, the suspension grappled with the rutted washboard surface. Even faced with stones, camber changes, and constantly varied dirt and sand makeup, the Ossa droned happily around the broad curve and into the forest. Here, the midday sun raked through the trees and dappled both trail and machine. Standing on the footpegs, I looked down at the front fender, the chrome headlight shell, and the orange, black, and white fuel tank. With light and shadow strafing the bike as it rushed along, it felt like hovering above a tiger in flight.

Riding ever deeper into a thick forest aboard a 54-year-old Spanish motorcycle makes a guy think: What if this thing breaks? But there was little actual danger; the general route made sense, the trees provided cool shade, and the terrain was doable. After some time, I stopped underneath a stout Jeffrey pine, removed my helmet, and savored the tree’s vanilla scent and nature’s quietness; only the scolding call of a Steller’s jay and the distant drone of an airplane intruded. I wasn’t sure what I expected of this trip overall, except for the euphoria of riding across my meadow of dreams. And maybe that’s what dreams are about anyway—a feeling more than something literal. Then it occurred to me: The sense of freedom of exploring on two wheels was what mattered. While young, that’s all I ever wanted, and it explains why the image of the meadow remained so indelible.

Convinced that the forest extended beyond what two gallons of 32:1 premix would allow, I decided to double back. Surprisingly, on the other side of the meadow, a concealed tunnel beneath the highway offered a respite from the intense sun at 8000 feet. A fresh breeze made the air cool and pleasant inside, and I paused again and unfolded a map atop the Ossa’s seat and tank. Beyond the tunnel was a sandy intersection, where more trails united like points on a compass rose. North and south tracked with powerlines, and east aimed toward Nevada and, hundreds of miles of wilderness further, Cedar City, Utah. This was ridiculously out of range for the Pioneer and its pilot, so I kept the riding local. But I did imagine that journey . . .

By day’s end, I found that the trail of my dreams was nothing heroic, just one short section of a vast expanse of wildland. Something akin to a few notes in a very long song. Visible for a few seconds traveling by car, over time it had come to represent something way bigger, an innate desire to freely, as Joseph Campbell professed, “follow your bliss.” That’s nice and tidy academically, but how would I nurture fellow gearheads in the matter? Well, like this: Clearly define your feelings, give yourself permission, gas up your vintage ride, and go try it. You may not get what you expect—or you may gain something way better. It’s funny how it took so long to understand this, but I’m glad that little dusty meadow trail helped.