46th Annual Hansen Dam Rally – A Ride in the Key of Thump
- Jeremy Brown
- Nov 8
- 4 min read
This past weekend I found myself riding north toward a gathering older than many of the machines that would soon surround me—the 46th Annual Hansen Dam Rally. It has been running almost as long as I’ve been alive, an unbroken thread of riders, engines, and stories stitched along a dusty spit of Los Angeles terrain.
The invitation came not through old friends or club ties, but by the strange, modern fortune of stumbling through Facebook groups at midnight. I had been searching for local riders who shared a taste for twisties and open routes, and while I’d heard the name “Club 59” whispered around cafés and parking lots, I never knew a chapter sat so close to home. A blue button, some simple questions—What do you ride? Where do you live? Can you attend rides?—and minutes later, a notification: You’re approved.
A warm rush of welcome messages followed like headlights cresting a hill at dusk. Royal Enfield riders, mostly—men who knew the particular heartbeat of those machines. They recognized the photo I uploaded, shot at the top of Ortega, classic in its framing and worthy enough to spark conversation.
There was, however, that familiar question every rider faces:Do I really want to ride an hour and a half to a meet-up… only to ride again, then ride home?
By dawn the answer was clear.
At 6 a.m. on Sunday I was already rolling out, the morning cool and the world still half-asleep. I don’t often take my Classic 350 onto the highways—she’s built more for rhythm than speed—but there was no time for the scenic route. So I zipped onto the freeway and into the quiet emptiness of Los Angeles.
For a moment, the city felt abandoned. As the sun rose behind me, warming my back, the traffic began to stir like the slow resurrection of a zombie army—sluggish, dazed, but hardly threatening. Only in the heart of downtown did the LA I knew reappear: ten minutes of weaving through gridlock like a river through boulders. Then, like a bird freed from a cage, the road widened and the valley opened before me.
When I finally swung left off the exit and into a small café’s parking lot, I was greeted by the sound of laughter drifting from a shaded patio—accents and leather, badges and patches, the unmistakable aroma of strong coffee and stronger camaraderie. My Classic sputtered to a halt, spat once in protest, and fell silent.
“JEREMY!” a voice boomed from the patio.
A shorter, bearded man approached with a grin and handed me a small "Pottering Pilchards"—my first token of belonging. Inside, the whole patio paused for a moment while he announced me like a town crier presenting a traveler from far-off lands. Hands reached out, one after another, offering welcomes. Questions volleyed across the table—Who are you? Where’d you come from? How long you been riding? The patio filled, chairs from everywhere pressed into service as more riders arrived.
At last, the call went out: Let’s ride.
A flock of Nortons, Triumphs, Enfields, and all manner of well-loved machines barked to life. One by one we pulled out, a shimmering parade of chrome and thumping exhaust rolling toward the Hansen Dam Rally.
In the wide dirt lots below the dam, I was swallowed into a sea of metal—vintage and modern machines packed tight as cattle around a watering hole. Oddly enough, I never saw the dam itself, nor any water, just dust and sunlight and the restless energy of hundreds of bikes idling under the desert sky.
After drifting for a while among the rows, I found our group’s tent and sank into the familiar ritual of swapping stories—where we’d come from, where we’d ridden, the peculiar quirks of our machines. Then the word came again, simple and electric:
The Ride.
I’d never ridden this far north toward the canyons and didn’t know what to expect. But soon enough the road narrowed and began to sway—left, right, climbing, twisting—until the houses fell away and the canyon walls closed in. There were no guardrails, just a faded yellow line and the warm sun beating on my back.
The line of bikes pulsed forward together, rising through the curves like a long metallic serpent. Engines popped on the downhills, brakes whispered, throttles surged. At the summit we spilled into a large gravel turnout where a sea of hot exhausts ticked in the sun. Riders gathered in loose, storytelling clusters—laughing, capturing photos, reliving moments that had just passed beneath our wheels.
From the ridge we could see a small town far below, quiet and unbothered, like a toy village carved from the valley floor.
The descent was glorious—everything the climb had promised but hadn’t given me time to appreciate. Up, down, around, through wind-swept curves and racing shadows until at last we rolled into the lower lot again. Where earlier there had been rows of vintage bikes sunning themselves, now only a few machines remained, and the Club 59 tent flapped softly in the early afternoon breeze.
A few goodbyes. A few handshakes. Stories saved for next time. Everything a ride should leave behind.
Since I was already north of my usual orbit, I decided to make one final stop—a pilgrimage of sorts.
Ruby’s Frosty Freeze11401 Washington Blvd, Whittier, CA
This small, unassuming spot has been a family favorite for decades—long before I married in, long before my wife could walk. Her family grew up on its shakes and burritos, and whenever we passed this part of town, stopping was law. So I continued the tradition. I ordered my wife’s favorite—a bean and cheese burrito—and carefully tucked my precious cargo into the sidebox before heading south once more.
A Brief History of Ruby’s Frosty Freeze
Opened in the early 1950s, Ruby’s Frosty Freeze is one of those classic Southern California roadside stands that survived the ebb of time simply by refusing to change. Generations have stood beneath its simple signage for soft-serve cones, burgers, and burritos. It’s the kind of place where the menu hasn’t shifted in decades, where the same families return again and again because the taste is woven into their childhoods. A living relic of mid-century California—equal parts nostalgia and comfort food.
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