 THE GOLDEN STATE: 14 June – 26 July 2003
Overview:
The trip begins with a grueling two-day desert journey from Houston to Palomar Mountain, California and then slows down with a stunning ride up the Pacific Coast Highway. From the heights of Yosemite to the depths of Death Valley, the beauty and wonders of the state are explored. The author is humbled by the generosity of a true guardian angel in Tehachapi and entertained by a homeless man on roller skates in Bakersfield. This incredible scenic diversity continues in his ride through the forest cathedrals of Redwoods and Sequoias, the thick fog of the Coastal Range, and a sandstorm on Arizona's Navajo Nation. It is the story of a man much more at ease with the road.
Excerpt from The Golden State:
June 16, 2003: I'm up early again, but in no hurry to leave. I sit on the deck outside my bedroom and watch a deer walk quietly through the early morning shadows. Stella and I have breakfast and talk for a while. As I'm packing she gives me some Bates Nut Farm English Toffee. She always brings some for us when she visits Houston, but this package will not get anywhere near Texas. Not far from the house I stop for a few minutes and look out over the mountains. The morning is bright and clear, the few clouds in the sky are all below me. I've bee given explicit directions down the mountain, but I get to the store and immediately take the wrong turn on SR6. I end up at a dead end near the observatory and have to retrace my route and take the opposite fork. Something's gone awry with my sense of direction. I'm consistently taking the wrong fork. At the bottom of the mountain I am back on Route 76 where I miss the shortcut to Temecula. Maybe there's a disturbance in the Earth's magnetic field around here that's causing me to take wrong turns. It doesn't matter; the wrong road is lined with oleanders of different colors, and farther along I see orange groves. The scents are overpowering, and to my way of thinking, totally California.
As I approach I-15 the weather turns cooler and rain threatens. I get on the interstate and ride a few miles, catching quite a chill. I pass four exits debating with myself whether to get off and put on leathers. Should I wear my jacket? Do I dare eat a peach? Good grief! I finally exit, put on my leather jacket, and warm up almost immediately. As I approach LA the freeway turns into a thoroughfare for the vehicular insane. Turn signals are used strictly as a diversion. I'm used to crazies behind the wheel, in fact I have been accused of being one of them, but these are not my crazies and it's disconcerting. I find open places in traffic and try to remain in them. Another biker passes. He's wearing one of those skeleton masks that are available through some of the catalogs. I've never seen one “in the wild” so to speak and the effect is startling and appropriate for the moment. I'm beginning to notice the smog. My throat is becoming dry and scratchy and a glance upward shows a brown haze hanging over the mountains. Yesterday, heat exhaustion, today smog alerts. I wouldn't trade a minute.
I take US 395 north and find myself back in the desert. Traffic is slowed down at times by large semis hauling trailers with wire mesh cages full of onions. The traffic in the opposite direction makes it impossible to pass one of these trucks for a few miles and my eyes are beginning to water by the time I'm able to squeeze by. I turn off the “onion highway” and head west on Route 58. The road goes past Edwards Air Force base. It occurs to me that the first man-made sonic boom on earth echoed across these sands — onions and airplanes in the high desert.
The mountainside above the town of Mojave is covered with wind turbines. From a distance they look like crosses. I see the sign for a flight school at the same time I see a large jumbo jet circling. It is completely white, no markings whatsoever. It seems very close, yet I hear no sound. I don't think my pipes are loud enough to drown out the sound of something so close and so large. It's spooky. My shift lever is getting loose again. I've tightened it once already this morning, but I think it's gotten worse. I move it gingerly as I ride out of town. The white whale circles slowly, watching — a bad omen.
I have to pull over in Tehachapi as the shift lever has gone completely to hell. I ride slowly into town and pull up under a small tree in a shopping center parking lot. I take off the footrest and remove the shift lever. It is stripped. I have some lock-tight and try to get it together enough to get me 40 miles to Bakersfield. The Harley dealer there should have the parts in stock, but they won't be open until tomorrow. A guy in a pickup pulls up and asks if I'm having trouble, and if he can help. I tell him in jest that, yes I'm having trouble, and it sure would be nice if he had a shift lever. He says he has two of them at home and if I'd be willing to wait 40 minutes or so he'll go home and get one. I say I'd be glad to and he drives off, and I continue trying to put humpty back together. I go into a nearby store and get a large fruit juice and drink it slowly. I've put the shifter on backwards and I think it will hold enough to get me to Bakersfield. Not knowing how long I've been waiting I think about heading out but instead decide to sit back, relax and begin the 40 minute wait from this point. I've been waiting less than 10 minutes when my friend pulls up. He has a shift lever and we put it on — it fits and works perfectly! It's not just any shift lever either; it's an Arlen Ness — which are quite expensive. I can't believe my good fortune. I'm overcome by this random act of kindness. I have yet to use anyone's last name in any of these narratives and won't start now but, if I were to break with this tradition it would be to publicize and publicly acknowledge this kind man. His name is Farrell. He didn't even want to give me his address so I could send him something when I got home and I had to ask him more than once to do so. I'm grateful beyond words. Farrell is quickly on his way. I put the foot rest back on, pack up my tools and get back on the road, shifting like old times. I needed 40 miles and a perfect stranger, a guardian angel, has given me 4000.
I continue north on 58, and as I let out a sigh of relief, some tears of gratitude escape. Being the recipient of such an act of kindness is truly an emotional experience. Each time I shift gears I feel a tug in my chest. It's nice to be moving again. The hills north of Tehachapi are golden and spotted with green trees. The green on gold has an almost meditative effect. I lean back, slow down and enjoy the scenery. I guess this is why California is known as the Golden State. I exit on Route 223 and find myself on a narrow two-lane road between the golden hills. The road has no shoulders and the hills rise sharply upward. I like the closeness of the hillsides; they make the road feel safe. The afternoon sun is getting hot. Near Arvin I pull off into a parking area and look out across a wide, green valley. Fields that fit together like puzzle pieces stretch into the western horizon. Off to the right a homemade cross watches over the valley from atop a large rock. I take a long drink of water while standing in the middle of the empty road. These are the moments that I ride long distances for.
I take Route 41 toward Morro Bay, remaining alert because either the route is not clearly marked or my challenge with directions continues. I'm not qualified to make the determination. In either case I find myself doubling back to pick up the trail on more than one occasion. Near Shandon I stop in a restaurant parking lot to rest and take a drink of water. Adjacent to the lot an area is cordoned off by yellow tape and a sign requesting everyone to “watch for rattlesnakes.” I don't know whether to believe it or not, but I do move back a few feet. This is the first restaurant I've seen with an actual snake pit.
My friend Eric told me that his grandparents are buried in Morro Bay, and he asked that if I rode through there, to take a minute and think kindly of him. There is absolutely no way I will ignore such a request. He made it real easy for me to decide where I'll meet up with the Pacific. My first sights of Morro Bay are the smokestacks of the power plant that tower above the trees. I can smell the ocean. I get a motel right next to Highway 1, unload my pack and go into town and walk along the embarcadero, which I'm used to calling the waterfront. It is relaxing just to walk slowly along the street. I stop and get some postcards and ask the young man that sells them where the Post Office is. He has no idea. I ask him about Route 1 north. He has no idea. I think I know more about the area and I just arrived. I stifle the urge to ask him where the ocean is, but instead talk to a lady in another shop that knows where everything is, including the Post Office. I walk around some more and spend some time staring at Morro Rock, which sits squarely in the middle of the bay. I write some post cards and drop them at the Post Office; it is important to me that Eric's bear the Morro Bay post mark. This is a peaceful place. If you have trouble relaxing here, you flat have trouble. This evening I go to sleep a very lucky and grateful man.
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