The Long & Winding Road AKA

Emu's 6 Week Tour

Look Here For Raymond's Version Of Events

Part 17
Meandering with Purpose: Streets of L.A.

There is no Southern California! There is the Mojave Desert, the Mexican border and Los Angeles. To a couple of motorheads on our Intruders, there really was no way to tell where San Diego ended and Los Angeles began! Urban sprawl.

With new tire installed, we headed up I-5 toward Los Angeles. At Capistrano Beach, we followed the coast on the Pacific Coast Highway (Hwy 1). If you are in a rush, the Coast Highway from Capistrano to Los Angeles is not the road to take. It is dotted with resort towns every couple of miles. These towns are very picturesque, but touristy. Although the road is crowded and a lot of time is spent in stop and go traffic, you really don't mind. These coastal communities in the Southern California sun, have one of the most effective traffic calming strategies I have ever seen. While stopped at traffic lights in towns like Dana Point, South Laguna and Laguna, the ocean and beach is only a block or two west. While sitting and waiting for light after light to change, a bevy of bikini clad beauties saunter by on their way to the beach. Mercy! Some intersections were worth waiting two light changes!

Our plan, for lack of a better term, was to make it through L.A. before the afternoon rush-hour. We didn't realize the afternoon rush-hour started at midnight last month. We wanted to stay as close to the Coast as we could. But somewhere near Huntington Harbor things went amiss. The road was closed and we had to follow encrypted detour signs. Now, I have no idea where we were going, what direction we were going, or how many roads we wound up taking. But while trying not to get squashed by a fleet of 18 wheelers, we toured one of the industrial areas of L.A.. As I said, the detour signs were not that easily followed. There were several detour routes on each sign. Eventually we just followed any 18 wheelers traveling in a northwesterly direction. Eventually Highway 1 reappeared. We had bypassed Long Beach altogether and were now in Wilmington. So much for riding by the Queen Mary. Little did we know L.A. X was now the substitute tourist attraction. The traffic around L.A. International Airport is not heavier than other parts of the city, just faster and a little crazier. The futuristic tower in the terminal area is quite impressive, even from a distance.
We stopped at taco restaurant in the Santa Monica, Culver City area for a bite and a bit of a break to let the bikes cool down.The burrito was good, but the large Coke to wash down the dust and exhaust of several hours of city riding was a welcomed treat.

Originally, we wanted to take Sunset Boulevard and work our way to the San Gabriel Mountains. This had been suggested to me by MJ (Michigan Jeff) at the Detroit motorcycle show last winter. He had said once we got through L.A. if the bikes were still running, the road to Mount Wilson would be ample reward. He was right, but first we had to get there! It was now the height of rush-hour. The traffic was now stop and go, bumper to bumper. By the map, Santa Monica Boulevard would get us where we needed to be. After ten minutes waiting to turn onto Santa Monica, we rode perhaps a mile in 20 minutes. Sometime in the past, I had seen a postcard of a road with tall palm trees lining the sides. At the bottom of the card it said Santa Monica Boulevard. Raymond and I were now sitting in that postcard. We bailed into a motel parking lot and asked the manager if there was a better way to get where we were going. He suggested the dreaded expressways. We turned around and spent another 20 minutes getting on the 405.

Now L.A. expressways are a post all to themselves. You've heard of them, seen them in the movies, to ride them only confirms that L.A. is one big Expressway. And we managed to enter the system during peak occupancy. I use the term "occupancy", because it sure didn't seem like anyone was going anywhere. However, we did observe a few motorcyclists lane splitting. It took sometime to get onto the 101, which sporadically moved a little better than the previous expressway. By now I had forgotten what cut off we wanted to head into the mountains. I figured if we hit Pasadena, we probably went too far. To his credit, Raymond didn't know where we were going either. But then I saw a sign from above. "CANADA"! That's what the sign said. Well, actually it said La Canada Flintridge next exit. When you travel in a state of being lost as much as I do, you come to trust the little signs from above that fate offers you. I pointed to the sign and told Raymond "Canada is good". We took the exit. Love fate! La Canada Flintridge is exactly where the road we wanted into the Mountains starts.

Now, how does one describe motorcycle heaven ? Three words. San Gabriel Mountains! MJ sure knows his roads. Only 30 miles inland, the road rises from just above sea level to 5700 ft. at Mount Wilson. The mountains are absolutely gorgeous. The road winding through the mountains is a man-made match to the surroundings. Tight curves, switchbacks, always climbing higher. Only a guardrail separates you from a major drop just inches away. The higher you go, the more magnificent the vista around each bend. From the Mount Wilson Observatory, we looked out over the whole Los Angeles basin. The downtown towers looked like spikes and the smog cloud looming over the basin, looked like the aftermath dispersal cloud of a nuclear explosion. With the sun sinking on its westward trek, the light effect gave our view of Los Angeles an extra depth and a slightly eerie dimension.
From Mount Wilson we rode N3 through the canyons and the Los Angeles Forest. We took turns leading each other through this most magnificent forty miles of road to Palmdale. It was dark when we arrived in Palmdale. It had been a long hard day, but riding the San Gabriel Mountains had totally rejuvenated us. Happiness is a motorcycle road trip! We ate a good dinner and slept very well that night.

Part 18
Meandering with Purpose: Gremlins and Grooving

Ever have one of those days where the road gremlins throw everything they can at you? Ever have that happen on the same day the road gods are smiling at you. ...

Gremlin 1: direction astray
From Palmdale it was our intention to take the most direct route back to the coast. We headed north on Hwy 14 figuring the road heading west was a mere 12 miles away. Thirty-five miles later, as we entered the town of Mojave, we passed some 30 Harleys outside Mike's Roadhouse Cafe. Both Raymond and I had enough geographic knowledge under our belts to know the Mojave Desert is a little bit inland and just a little off our intended course. We pulled into Mike's and parked amongst the Harleys. While checking our location on the pulp GPS (map) and admiring the motorcycles close by, we were greeted by a rather large member of the Harley group. He asked if we needed help. He wasn't sure of the best route to the coast and invited us into the cafe to ask the group. The big fellow announced where we had traveled from and were looking for directions. The group seemed quite impressed by our cross-country trek and pointed out several options in getting to the coast. Most said they envied our trip and wished us a good safe journey.
We backtracked toward Palmdale passing Edwards Air Force Base once again then headed west on Rte. 48. We rode I-5 the short hop to the Gorman, Frazier Park area where we stopped for fuel and a quick pancake break at McDonald's . We then rode the back roads westward. We passed huge crop fields, an aqueduct and a lake that was more reservoir than lake. The landscape was a flat patchwork of fertile cultivated fields reclaimed from the desert. As we rode Rte. 33 the terrain was semi arid and the midmorning heat was on the rise.

Gremlin 2: the big critter.
As we approached Maricopa, we were riding staggered about 10 feet apart with Raymond in the lead. We were cruising the last stretch of road before the town limit at about 50 mph. Just when you're nice and comfy, feet on the highway pegs, not a care in the world ... gremlin time! Without warning, a large dog or coyote, bolted from it's hiding position in the bushes on the right shoulder of the road. It ran across the road behind Raymond and directly in front of me. While my mind was instantly formulating a colorful metaphor for my vocal cords to deliver, reflex action already had me counter steering toward the shoulder, barely missing the pooch's rump. As I went by the dog(coyote?), I was only now closing the throttle and moving to brake. It happened that fast, and that close. As I almost started to slow, I was looking back and watching the animal disappear into the bush on the far side. Cool! About 10 seconds after the fact, the adrenaline rush kicked in. Better late than never. In town, I pulled up beside Raymond and with adrenaline induced excitement said "Did you see that?" Raymond, a perfect picture of calm, totally oblivious to the event, said "What? No.What?"

Gremlin 3: the fuel shortage.
At McKittrick we stopped briefly for a cold drink, but did not top up our gas tanks. We headed out-of-town on Rte. 58. About 10 miles from town, we passed a sign that brought us to a stop. "No services for 70 miles". While in the States, I have to mentally calculate miles into kilometers to accurately figure how much gas I've used and how much is left. As close as I could calculate, it would be touch and go to the next service station. Raymond figured he had enough gas to make it, but I figured I was a few fumes short of going the distance. Now, I know a more timid rider with a mere modicum of intelligence, would have backtracked 10 miles to fill up. My calculations had it so close, I just had to tempt fate. It was, after all a challenge dangled in front of me. Me and the Babester against the laws of physics. So with my "boy am I stupid" grin firmly in place, we forged on. Not only was there no service, there was absolutely nothing else out there either. But the sun was shining, the road lazily ran over rolling hills and swept through the valleys on its way to the Sierra Madre foothills.Why worry about a drop or two of petrol? Even though we were traveling at 50 mph to conserve fuel, climbing the eastern side of these small mountains was eating gas. Then at the crest a sign indicated descending grades for the next six miles. I shut everything down and coasted. About two miles later I caught up to Raymond. He was coasting too. For almost seven miles the only sounds we heard were our own voices and the wind passing our ears. Amazingly, when we rolled into Santa Margarita I had not yet gone on reserve. Love that Babester! We picked up Rte.41 at Atascadero and rode the remaining 16 miles to the coast. Between Atascadero and the coast the temperature dropped from 105 to about 65 / 70 degrees.

Part 2 ....

Part 18
Meandering with Purpose: Gremlins and Grooving
... Part 2

Attaining the "Zone" ...
The first 25 miles from Morro Bay up the Pacific Coast Highway, except for being beside the ocean, is almost unremarkable. The next hundred or so miles is absolutely spectacular. If ever there was a hundred miles to make the motorcycle soul ... soar!
We made a quick stop at the Hearst Castle, but the Castle was on a far off hill. I believe there was shuttle service to go there. We circled the museum parking lot and continued north. About 10 miles north San Simeon the highway transforms itself into one of the most magnificent roads anywhere in the world. The Pacific Coast Highway twists and turns following the contour of the shore and the mountain embankment it is carved into. It flows down to sea level, you can almost touch the ocean. Then it goes into hairpin turns up the mountainside and inland. The sun is shining but the road briefly disappears in the rolling mist moving up the mountain off the Pacific below. The road turns again at the end of the gorge and returns back to an ocean view. Always climbing, dropping, twisting and turning. Always a mixture of green foliage, blue ocean expanse and wisps of white mist ever moving upward and inland. This sequence repeats itself time after time, mile after mile.
We stopped for a drink at a little tourist trap that looked like it was imported from Switzerland. But the view of the ocean was spectacular. We continued on stopping for gas in the Big Sur State Park area. Not that we were looking for a campsite this early, but every campground was full.
We crossed Bixby Bridge. I pulled off the road, Raymond came up beside me. I asked if he knew what we had just crossed? He shrugged, looked back and as I was saying "Bixby Brid..." Raymond said "Then Came Bronson"! Talk about your Pop Art and real-life. I do believe this day's ride was making us feel a little euphoric.
For a short period of time as we headed toward the Carmel area, the road hugged the mountains and coast with series after series of tight sweeping curves. By this time anything that wasn't in front of me, didn't exist. Totally focused, body and mind on the immediate road curving ahead. Even running slightly hot into the curves, it was almost like slow motion to me. I could feel every nuance of the road under me. I was more in the motorcycle than on it. Without realizing it, I had dropped my boot heel just slightly below the foot peg. The rough rumble on my heels as they scraped through curve after curve only served to heighten the feeling. When the road straightened, Raymond was way back. As I slowed and waited, I realized we had been doing this several times throughout the trip. You hit the groove. The "Zone"! For brief moments everything comes so together and focused, its riding perfection. The day before while riding the San Gabriel Mountains and canyons to Palmdale I noticed at times I couldn't keep up with Raymond. He was gone, in the "zone". I tried to catch him, but settled for watching a two wheeled thing of beauty sweep through the curves and keep pulling further ahead. Fortunately or Unfortunately, the groove or "zone", doesn't hold for too long. But this day on the Pacific Coast Highway, I hit the most prolonged "zone" I have ever managed to attain. Motorcycle ecstasy.

Gremlin 4: the complaint
We called it a day at Santa Cruz. Ate dinner at a Chinese restaurant, then returned to the motel to relax in the outdoor hot tub. We were talking about the day's ride, tomorrow's ride and how much we were enjoying ourselves in general. The night manager appeared and told us we had to keep the noise down! She had received a complaint from a guest about loud rowdy behavior at the hot tub. We told the manager we would try, but dropping our noise level any further would require us to whisper in each other's ear .... We weren't prepared to do that!

Part 19(A)
Meandering with Purpose: Avenue of the Giants

The bikes were packed and ready to roll before the motel staff had the coffee ready for the continental breakfast. After a quick bite, we continued north on Highway 1 following the coast. San Francisco is about 75 miles from Santa Cruz. The start of our early morning ride was a combination of rolling mist from the ocean, putting some bite into the cool temperature, followed by the early morning sun warming the air in the clear areas when the road turned inland. The traffic was sparse the first 45 miles, making for an enjoyable ride along the beaches. We hoped to ride the Coast Highway through San Francisco as quickly as possible to avoid city traffic, but as we got closer, we had a change of heart. We decided after Los Angeles, San Francisco would be a piece of cake. So on a whim, we cut away from the Highway and rode through the city. Raymond had never been on cable car. San Francisco had been my last Port of Call before leaving the Navy some 27 years ago. It would have been a shame to bypass Frisco.

Keeping true to form, it didn't take long to lose our bearings and re-enter the "lost zone" we were so accustomed to. San Francisco is a friendly place. At a stoplight, while a fellow on a bicycle gave us directions to Fisherman's Warf, the light changed and no one blasted their horns while we took an extra couple of seconds before moving. We made it to Van Ness Ave, where again while stopped in traffic, help in getting to Fisherman's Warf came in the form of a rather good-looking lady in the car next to me. I leaned toward her window and said "excuse me". When she turned toward me, I could now see she was on a cell phone. I apologetically waived her off with a "never mind" kind of shrug. Right away, the window opened and the cell phone was tossed onto the passenger seat. Through a most effervescent smile, came our requested directions. "You can't miss it, just keep going along Van Ness and turn right."
"Well" I said "You wouldn't believe the things I 'Can't miss'! Turn right?"
Laughing she said "Yup, Van Ness ends, you can't go any further. Fisherman's Warf is to the right." I thanked her as the traffic started to move. At the end of Van Ness, Raymond yelled "Your other right!"

We parked near the foot of Hyde Street at a parking meter designated "motorcycles only". The crowd waiting at the Hyde Street cable car turnaround was in good humour as they were being entertained by a comical street musician. We rode the cable car hanging out the side as any self respecting tourist would. We got off at Lombard St. and watched cars meander down the world's most crooked street. We walked back down to the Aquatic Park and spent some time walking the pier looking at the collection of old ships, now floating museum pieces. We returned to the motorcycles and headed for the Golden Gate Bridge. San Francisco had been a very pleasant pause in our trip up the coast.

We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge in a very thick fog. It seemed more like a tunnel than a bridge, with the suspension cables disappearing into a ceiling of cloud just overhead. There was no sensation of being high above anything or that we were crossing a large expanse. It was simply a ride in the fog. We stopped at the Vista Point look out at the north end of the bridge. The fog bank at times obscured all but the top of the bridge support stanchions. This was an ever-changing view as more of the bridge appeared and disappeared. We were right at the north end basking in sunshine while the bridge itself for the most part was in the fog.
While at Vista Point, a local rider told us Hwy 1 was a parking lot and it would take hours to travel 20 miles. We elected to run up 101 to Leggett and from there find the Avenue of the Giants. 101 at least was a multilane parking lot. It was solid stop and go traffic all the way past Santa Rosa. Raymond and I finally decided to try lane splitting. It was a little nerve racking at first, but most cars moved over a little when they saw us coming. We did this for several miles beating the stopped traffic. We both agreed, it was a novelty and seemed to work quite well. We enjoy doing it, but were still very apprehensive. An hour or two later, we stopped at a burger place about a mile from the highway for a cool drink. They had a little something called "Pumpkin Puddingcake". We just had to give that try. Now slightly heavier in a state of pumpkin bliss, we rode for the Redwoods.
(end part 1)

Part 19(B)
Meandering with Purpose: Avenue of the Giants
Part 2

The Avenue of the Giants.
They can grow to 300 feet in height. Many are more than 2000 years old. They were here when the Roman Empire was the superpower. When Christ walked the earth. We had traveled over mountains and had been excited by the adventure. We sat dangling our feet over the the edge of the Grand Canyon drinking in one of the most spectacular views on the planet and were amazed. But it was these 2000-year-old living trees that held me in awe ....
We picked up the Avenue of the Giants at Phillipsville. The Avenue is approximately 32 miles of two lane road winding through the redwood forest, parallel to Hwy 101. These majestic, 2000-year-old giant trees line each side of the roadway. This was probably the most surreal road I will ever travel. We took our time, slowly riding along, no other traffic to bother us. The sheer size of the tree trunks is enough to bring you to a stop. In several groves, the shade from the forest canopy was dark as late evening. We stopped several times along the way. At one of these stops, when I returned to the bikes after investigating whatever it was that caught my curiosity, Raymond was off somewhere himself. He was a good distance from the road, just sitting amongst a stand of redwoods. I went over and sat, not too close to disturb Raymond, but in the same stand of trees. We didn't talk, just sat there in the silence of the forest. As I looked up at the surrounding redwoods, I realized they seemed to be in an almost perfect circle around us. We were sitting in what could only be described as a living cathedral. And for a time Raymond and I sat in silence, it's only parishioners.
It was getting late, so we decided to find a campsite for the night. When we reached the Hidden Springs campground gate, we discovered the last bastion of an era long gone. The park ranger wouldn't accept plastic. The cost of the campsite was $11.00. Between the two of us we could only scrape up about 7 dollars. We worked a deal with the ranger. Raymond headed into the park and started setting up the campsite while I wrote to the nearest ATM. I first rode to Myers Flat only a mile away. No ATM. The locals told me the general store in Miranda had one, but they'd be closing in about 20 minutes. Miranda was six miles past the campground, in the other direction. I rode as quick as possible, hoping the little critters like bears, moose cowardly lion's, tin men and the dreaded herds of deer, weren't lurking behind each and every massive tree trunk. Actually I thoroughly enjoyed the high speed run down the Avenue. I got to the general store with five minutes to spare. Got the cash we needed, and discovered the only restaurant in the area was closing as well. It was time for emergency motorcycle dinner rations. I quickly bought hotdog buns, peanut butter, bananas, Coca-Cola and bottled orange juice for the morning. The little plastic knives were on the house. It was now dark as I rode the six miles back to the campground. I settled our outstanding debt with the California state park system and headed for the campsite. Raymond was all set for the night and helped set up my tent. I told him about racing for the cash machine and that we'd have to settle for a makeshift dinner. Under the giant redwoods, makeshift or not, if you've got peanut butter, you've got a feast.
The next morning we were up early and rode the remainder of the Avenue of the Giants at first light. We stopped at Eureka for breakfast, then continued up the coast to Oregon. The skies had become overcast and the temperature had dropped accordingly. At Brookings Oregon, we phoned Ben, a member from the original IA board and a regular at the "Outlaw Cafe". We were under the impression he lived here. It turned out he lived some three hours away. We continued up to coast and as the cold wind blowing in from the ocean got stronger, the temperature dropped lower. Even on a miserable day, the rugged Oregon coast is something to behold. On a miserable day, it was a great ride. I can imagine what it must be like on a warm sunny day to ride this road. By the time we reached Florence, the cold damp weather had taken its toll and we decided to call it a day. We got a motel with a hot tub steaming away by the indoor pool. But being the foolhardy lads we are, we braved the cold for one last short disastrous trip. We rode to the local theater and saw "The Hulk"! Man, I sure wish we had passed on that one and went straight to the hot tub.

The Journey Continues Here

Note This is Ed's story of his almost 19,000KM journey.
It has not been edited by me in any way and is posted here,
so others may enjoy the trip Vicariously
Emu is a member of the Intruder Alert Cafe

Be Sure to Check out Raymond's Abridged Version of Events

Type @ ya'll later
Night_Wolf

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