Pacific Coast Weekend By: John Rice
I made arrangements through California Cycle Rental in Moss Beach, just south of the Bay area, for a K 75 , packed up our leathers and helmets and off we went to the Left Coast. Our driver from the airport pointed out the aftermath of an earthquake, dodged increasingly insane traffic, then deposited us at the Westin St. Francis, an elegant old hotel in the heart of the downtown bay district, just a short distance from Fisherman's Wharf. We got our room, hung up our leathers (that should confuse the maid in the morning!) and headed out to see what we could of the City before dark. We took the Powell-Hyde cable car down to the Wharf, wandered through the markets and ended up at a restaurant on the Bay, with a view of Alcatraz and a resident herd of sea lions barking and harrumphing on the piers. They were great hulking blobs of rippling blubber and after dinner I felt I could have slipped in among them unnoticed. My seminar lasted two seemingly interminable days (all about insurance fraud--defending against it, that is, not committing it) and by the end of the second day I was in Bike Trip mode long before the class was over. We made an appointment to be picked up by the rental company’s driver and then took one last wild cable car ride around the city. There is, of course, nothing like motorcycling, but careening around corners standing on the front of a cable car, holding on to a thin metal pole and leaning out over the street as it tops a hill over the Bay will serve as a short-term substitute. We passed Lombard Street, the curviest single residential piece of pavement (brick, actually) I've ever seen and the thought of races up and down it on 50cc scooters became nearly irresistible. The driver took us on the scenic route down to Moss Beach, through Haight-Ashbury (where I was seized with an urge to tie-dye something, just anything!) and past Golden Gate park down to the Pacific and along the coast road south. We went through the housing development of uniform little homes that inspired Burl Ives' song describing "little boxes... all made out of ticky-tacky and they all look just the same..". Burl was right. We had made reservations at the hotel in Half-Moon Bay, the next community down from the rental office and they were to pick us up the next morning to begin our California odyssey. That evening we walked along the beach behind the hotel, wandered through the few streets and ended up at a nondescript little Chinese restaurant next door to a surf shop. I was impressed with how quickly the big city was left behind : less than 30 miles south of the urban sprawl this little town had many unpaved streets and a mix of fine homes and shacks. There were tractors on the highway making their slow way between fields and working pickup trucks, not the jacked up posers sporting stereos and mag wheels, everywhere. We sat on the beach and watched (for me the first time) the sun set in the Pacific while planes from the nearby small airport came in for the night. The next morning we picked up the K-bike at the rental company and headed north.It was cold (after all, this was the Rice's on tour--what else did you expect?), about 45 or 50 degrees and the wind was coming off the ocean with moist breezes that misted the low bar-mounted windshield. I hadn't anticipated the physical size difference between the R100GS/PD at home and the smaller 750 and we were a bit cramped until we adjusted our bodies to the available space (maybe I shouldn't have had the second helping of mu shu pork the night before?), but nothing could lessen the sheer pleasure of finally riding a motorcycle on the cliffs over the blue Pacific. Writers very much my superior have attempted to describe the view and I now know that their efforts were ineffective.... I certainly am not sufficiently talented to tell you how it looks and feels to be on a narrow ribbon of asphalt suspended over rocks and beach, seeming such a long way up from the water below and yet how the vastness of the sea compared to the reference points on land makes it seem close enough to touch. But don't look at it for long, because the road under your wheels curves tortuously along the edge (and I do mean edge) of the drop-off to the shore. In places the road had been cut through the rock so that one entered a "canyon" of stone then a hundred yards later, emerged into a curve such that it appeared the road just ended and went off into the water. We eventually came to trust that there would still be pavement ahead, but never really got jaded to the sheer drama of the view. We worked our way back into San Francisco and onto the Golden Gate bridge. It isn't as tall or as windy as the Mackinaw Bridge in Michigan (a personal high point on my fear-o-meter) but I'd waited a lifetime to cross it and I was suitably impressed. Just past the end, we detoured down into Sausalito for breakfast and to say we'd been there. We sat at the counter of Dave's Coffee shop, across the street from the harbor and watched the Oriental cook perform magic with eggs and pancakes, art from such humble materials. Bellies filled and with a bit of adjustment to the windshield, we were off again--and promptly lost. I blamed it on California's poor road marking, but actually I'm sure I was just sightseeing when I should've been looking for where I was going. There are no real mistakes on bike trips, however, since every road has to go somewhere. We end up in the little town of Mill Valley, a scene that looks so much like a stereotypical sitcom TV town that it finally dawns on me that it was exactly that, many years ago. We see all of it, both ways as I find my way back to Route One, headed for our first tourist stop at Muir Woods. The road down to the Woods is wonderful, reminding me again of those perfect roads only seen in movies, and again probably because it is one of those roads. It switches back on itself over and over, snaking in and out of the brown brush-covered hills leading down from the coastal ridge to the redwood groves. I'm still too timid to really push the curves, since I am, after all, 2000 miles from home, in unfamiliar territory, riding someone else's bike. At least that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. I'd hate to admit that I'm just so dumbstruck by the scenery that I can't keep my eyes on the road. At Muir Woods we park near the entrance to the trails and as we're removing our gear, watch a group of tourists, Japanese men in business suits, gather and march into the grove, shoulder to shoulder, cameras at the ready. We follow them in but quickly split off to go our own way. They take our picture--several times. Our path leads us through a narrow corridor of the huge trunks with their green sheltering canopy far above letting in only enough sunlight to bring a soft surreal lighting on the scene. There is a peace here, as if some force, some deity (name whatever you choose) wanted it to be this way. The thought of clear-cutting an old growth forest like this strikes me as an exceptional form of obscenity. One can see life here, as varied and abundant as in the ocean, a whole environment supporting its cast with ease if just left alone. We backtrack to Highway 1 again, up the same marvelous hill road and pick it up where we left before. The road here is lined with strange trees, a form of cypress I think, that grows up in a tall tangle of trunks that end suddenly in a flat "umbrella" of foliage at the top---sort of like a row of giant Lyle Lovetts holding vigil over our progress. Soon we begin a descent through the hills until all at once (or so it always seems) the ocean was there in front of us again. More spectacular views, there aren't enough superlatives in my lexicon to keep describing it, and I'm riding slowly now, partly because of traffic but mostly so I can see what's around me and still not launch us off into the air over the surf below. We stop at Stinson beach, after an incredible winding road down from the ridge to the beach, so that I can check the wheels after running over a large rock and just to see the sea. The wheels were fine and so was the Pacific. Highway one here looks like the sliver rim that shows thin and jagged at the edge of a cloud at dusk. It follows the cliffs where the successive breakaways of the shore constantly renew the surface like a glacier slowly sliding into the sea. The "calves" of this process lie in the water below us , forming huge barriers to the surf. Come back in a million years or so, and these building-size rocks will be beach sand and highway one will be several miles east---and still spectacular. We are in a series of rising and falling now as the road climbs to the top of the cliff and then plunges back down to sea level, over and over, and taking the most circuitous route possible to get there. At the little town of Tomales we stop for lunch at the "oldest saloon in Marin County", circa 1878. The decor is sort of a cross between old European and early John Ford Western, the waitress is a stereotypical valley girl (she speaks in the declaratory interrogative, where every statement comes out like a question) but the food is good and we just like being here. Up the road a bit we stop at a craft fair being held in an old school. We want to see if even here there is evidence of the apparently universal urge to make crocheted toilet paper holders. Surprisingly, there isn't but there are other items of the same genre, proudly displayed. Brenda examines some earrings and barrettes, but restrains herself. North on the coast road we pass through Valley Ford (up in the hills, away from the sea), Bodega Bay (the gathering spot for the surf crowd, acres of tanned, fit young people staring intently at the ocean like cargo-cult worshipers, waiting for the ship to arrive) and Jenner (where the tourist is king, souvenir shops lining the streets and nouveau-historic architecture) till we stop for the mandatory pastry break at Sea Ranch. We fill our calorie-quota for the next six years with carrot cake and cranberry bread pudding in a café located in what used to be someone's modest seaside home, before tourists (like us) were so mobile. Fifty more miles that evening and we arrive at Fort Bragg where we find a room at the Surrey Inn and are pleasantly surprised to find that California prices haven't made it this far north. Brenda checks the little information card in our room and learns that there is a micro brewery, the NorthCoast Brewing Company Taproom and Grill, about six blocks up the street--thus proving that, yes, we are in fact living right. The food is quite good and I can recommend the Red Seal Ale, the "Old No. 38" Stout and the Scrimshaw Pilsner. Up early the next morning, I sustain the only injury of the journey when, running across the street to view the ocean at dawn I trip and sprawl ingloriously spread-eagled in the middle of the highway, skinning my palms and severely bruising my dignity. I lay there, stunned and watching the approaching truck and thinking, "no one is ever going to believe this is how I died", so I get up and scramble to safety. The ocean view is, after all that, worth it. Our path from here takes us away from the coast, up through the mountains and eventually down into the Napa Valley (which I at first thought would be lined with auto parts stores, but later learned that it had something to do with wine). It's very cold now on this early morning, probably in the high 30's or low 40's, but we can't let that bother us now. Route 20 from Ft. Bragg to Willett is as near perfect a motorcycle road as I've ever seen and we've got it all to ourselves. Where are the California riders? I guess when you've got wonderful weather most of the year, you don't ride when it's cold....a luxury not afforded to we tourists from back east. Smooth blacktop, looking like it was put down yesterday just for me, winds up into the hills between endless rows of deep green pines, broken only occasionally to allow us to look down into a valley of rocky streams and hills. I start to push the bike just a bit now and the sacked-out rear shock has Brenda up on her toes on the pegs, riding the pillion seat like a rodeo bronco. The K 75 handles much differently than a boxer, more "planted" feeling with a front end that seems like it actually wants to go the same way I do. My speeds are still quite sedate, but just quick enough to be interesting without giving either of us--or the rental company--cause for worry. We reach Willett too soon with regard to the ride but just in time with regard to our stomachs and locate a wonderful restaurant. It's a logging town and the eatery is sort of rustic but clean and nice. It caters to both the locals and the tourists, with things like huge potato-pancakes, eggs and biscuits breakfasts (which I, ever the morning glutton, order) and blintzes. We meet a British couple, wearing Belstaff riding gear, who tell us that their K-75 is parked just down from ours. The waitress, not Valley-issue this time, but more truckstop-movie-supporting-role, tells us about the good times riding with her husband on his Harley. I like it here, but Brenda reminds me that this isn't where we live and there's a lot of miles between us and the airport yet to go. The roads become less interesting and more "commercial" as we go south from Willett. Napa Valley, for all its reputation is actually quite ordinary, compared to what we've seen farther west. Rolling fields are pleasant, the vineyards a bit different than farms back East, but after the coast and mountain roads, it's a bit of a yawn. Seeing the mix of new high-tech machinery and the old (by American standards) farmhouses, one does have to wonder what life would've been like here 100 years ago when this was getting started. We stop for the obligatory winery tour (Brenda gets to do the tasting while I watch virtuously) at Berringer but we don't really have time to take in the whole operation. We're on the downhill run of the trip now and we have a schedule to keep—California Rental wants its bike back tomorrow and the airports are quite sticky about holding planes for lollygagging motorcyclists. The San Francisco skyline comes back into view all too quickly just as the rain (you didn't think I was going to get away without any, did you?) began. We're too stubborn to put on rainsuits and just press on south back to Half Moon Bay. A few miles north, we round a curve just as a sea-kayaker is changing into his wetsuit on the side of the road, bent over, full moon exposed to the oncoming traffic. Brenda briefly ponders leaning out and leaving a Kentucky handprint on this California lunar exhibit, but opts for discretion. He'll never know how close he came. Monday morning we used up our last hour of rental in a short run south, then turned in the K-bike just on time. The driver delivered us to the airport where we became only another bored couple waiting to be packed into a large metal tube flanked by high explosives, ready to be launched into the air at insane speeds high above a very hard earth, held up by the collective willpower of the passengers. We're back now in our old routines, our "real lives", but for that too brief weekend, California dreamin' became a reality. |