Ride Report: Parkfield (3/30/2002) Part 2
Apr. 2nd, 2002 12:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tugrikOne of the amusing aspects of highway 25 was the bug-impact factor.
At 80mph, insects are like tiny little weapons with wings. I learned the hard way how spoiled I was by my 'Wing's huge fairing... the tiny windscreen of the GS left me nicely exposed to the determined kamikazi-like impacts. Crossing into the first open-field area of Highway 25, a single tak! caught my attention. The second one had me puzzled. The third, dead-on center to the face-shield, left a nice goobery yellow mark that told me these were not road stones or other hazards... instead, the Bugs of Spring had indeed come out.
The novelty of the occasional impact turned to annoying little stings. Even through a leather jacket, those little suckers can hurt a bit. Like most things in cycling, though... you get used to it. The acclimation is helped along by the steady increase from single strikes to a near constant patter when the road strays too close to lush grass.
The bikes got a nice addition to their paintjob, soaking up most of the inbound insect arsenal. If you look at the full-sized version of this image you can better see the layering effect they can have. One's mindset shifts quickly in this situation. Novelty wears into concern; concern hardens into annoyance; annoyance bluntly passes into acceptance. Acceptance smoothly slides into a form of pride, that leaves you grinning. I'm a motorcycler. Bugs? bring it on!. The thicker the coat of bug-guts, the better the war-story. Thank goodness for full-faced helmets, though. I'm not hard-core enough to proudly show off bug-pitted teeth quite yet. The jacket and pants sure had to get a heck of a cleaning, though.
The map showed only a roundabout way to get to Parkfield from 198. Jocflier informed me we'd be taking the more direct route; one well suited to our GS bikes. A mere 300 feet to the left of the intersection was the entrance to Peachtree Road, which leads to Indian Valley Road.
These two roads function as one, and tend to be written with a hyphen by other motorcyclers. Peachtree-Indian is about 40 miles long. It's a single lane wide, and not terribly well maintained. There are no signs, no painted marks, no reflectors, no anything... just this single, well-worn track. A few potholes, but nothing scary. A few bits of dirt and grit here and there, but nothing the GS's couldn't handle.
Everything I said about the earlier road? Well... that applies here, but in a more robust fashion. While I fear running out of adjectives so early in my ride journalings, I have to admit this road was just utterly stunning. There are no high-speed segments like hwy. 25 had; this one was a completely different feel. If you can imagine a friendly, welcoming little rural road that leads to your Grandmother's house... the kind of thing you'd travel on by foot in the summer as a kid... that's this road. In part of my mind I could see myself while young... trampling my way down through taller grasses to a little farm-pond, fishing rod and bucket in hand. It felt so familiar, so friendly. I could have stopped just about anywhere and spent the afternoon there, in the shade of a tree, just listening to the wind. A strange conflict of emotions arises from this -- the urge to stop and recapture some old memories is in direct conflict with the stronger desire to tackle this road with the motorcycle. It just begged to be travelled. I've got a certain bluefurred friend that I'll get down on this road someday... though his fear of bikes will mean it'll just be a roadtrip. I fear the road will lose some of its wonder while in a cage... but motorcycling truely isn't for everybody.
I have no photos of this part of the trip. I couldn't bring myself to stop and bust the groove of the ride. Instead I'll just point you to the road-report on the pashnit.com site. It's a good read. I'll do my own road-report next trip down.
A sharp left just before the end of Indian Valley looped us back onto Vineyard Canon road. Not quite as pretty, not quite as remote... but still, a decent road. Ten miles and one good ridge later, you get dumped out into the tiny town of Parkfield. Population 37, reads the sign.
We parked our bikes next to three others, under the shade of a grand tree. It'd gotten hot; well over 85f by now. Okay, so that's not terribly hot... but when you're wearing riding leathers, gloves, and a full face helmet it's pretty uncomfortable if you stop and stand in the sun. The shade was welcome. Jocflier made a big deal of this, in fact; sharing tales of rides down to Parkfield in the hot mid-summer months... 98 degrees or higher, but a good 20deg cooler in the shade of this tree, and the porch of the nearby restaurant that was our destination.
Admission: A cup of Kindness read the steel sign aside the Parkfield BBQ. The wood-framed building contained a homey calm, and some very friendly locals. You could tell who was the biker, and who lived there, with only a glance. There was no animosity... just a difference in how each group presented itself and held stance. Both groups were relaxed. It was just that the bikers were relaxing as they were glad to rest from the road, while the locals were relaxing because it was just the laid-back thing to do.
Jocflier ordered up a pitcher of iced tea, and settled down on the shaded table there on the balcony. The other GS riders hadn't shown yet. Showing his usual preference for keeping his life's pace, Jocflier had us go ahead and order. He figured if the others were going to be late, he sure wasn't going to alter his schedule. Again, that got to me a little... but it wasn't harsh. It was just the way he seemed to interface with life. I can accept that, so it was fine.
We drank iced tea and watched other bikers roll in and out. Various two-wheelers trundled by, from the obnoxiously loud cruiser to the strangely out-of-place-seeming sportbike. One by one they lined up and came inside. Passing the place by wasn't really an option; it was the only real stop for quite some distance.
Eventually two of the bikes that showed up looked like ours. Sure enough, it was Greg Engle and GS-Dave, both from the Bakersfield area. We gave them a hearty welcome, and for the first time Jocflier got social and started talking biker-to-biker, instead of the reserved must keep going, not talking attitude he'd had all morning. In fact, once he got on a roll about a subject, it was hard to get a word in. That's okay, though; I liked listening. Jocflier: if you're reading this, I hope you don't take offense. I honestly found you someone to look up to in terms of motorcycling skill and experience. We may not have meshed well interpersonally, but after a few more rides and hangings-out, it'll go smoother. I just take a while to adapt to others sometimes. :)
The steaks were good. Very good, in fact. Apparently, Parkfield is known for cattle drives as much as earthquakes, and this leads to having a good selecton of Dead Cow. Many fine tidbits of motorcycling road-stories were shared, as well as a few suggestions about routes and ways in and out of this area of the state. After lunch ended, we all went out to the bikes for the Obligatory Group Photo.
This involved creative use of the top of some mailboxes and the timer function of my D30 camera. A few tries and a few goofy butt-shots of people running back to get into place after pressing the shutter gave way to this one decent shot. Next time, I'll bring the IR-remote unit! I followed this up with closeups of the various bikes.
and a few of Parkfield's few buildings and residents:
In particular, I liked Greg's GPS mount. I'm going to kitbash together something similar for my GS soon. I'm big on navigation toys, and that seems to be a great way to employ them.
Finally, it was time to head out. Jocflier rapidly returned to his on a schedule, MUST BE GOING NOW attitude, and the others soon followed suit, trying to keep up. As I still had to pack up the photo gear and re-dress for riding, I was rushed to keep up. I had barely gotten onto my bike before they were already rolling out of the town. I felt a little left-behind... and with good reason. Within a mile, they were long gone. I didn't see them again until all the way back in San Miguel, near Highway 101. They were at the junction where Left meant Bakersfield-bound, and Right meant back up to the Bay. Greg and GS-Dave at least had the courtesy to wait a few minutes and chat, so they could wave bye-bye before they took off. Jocflier was there, and didn't say a word before quickly busting into town. I followed him the two miles to the gas station, which is where I had hoped he'd lead me.
A few brief words about possible routes showed that he was just going to get back on the same road and do 100mph the whole way home. He had guests coming in the evening, and evidently lunch had gone too long for his liking. I wanted to go to the coast, so I was going to have to do it alone. He at least stayed long enough to point at a map a few times, and tell me the route through Ft. Hunter Ligett was a bad idea (post-9/11 security, and some overly challening dirt roads best not tackled alone). He told me to go south to Paseo Robles, and take 46 to the coastline. And with that, he was on his bike and outta there, without a look back. Zoom. I suppose when it's my 50th group ride and not my 2nd, I'll be more used to everybody going their separate ways so blithely.
I gassed up, bought more water, checked and re-checked the packing and bags just to make sure. After a few moments of quiet thought I was able to get rid of most of my bitterness about being left, and shook it out of my system. I hopped back in the saddle and fired the willing engine to life. A light blip of the throttle, then a smooth-roll on, clutching out. The GS and I easily loped up the Highway 101 South entrance ramp, noses to the wind. It wasn't long before I could smell the ocean.
(To be continued and completed in Part 3, in my next journal entry.)
At 80mph, insects are like tiny little weapons with wings. I learned the hard way how spoiled I was by my 'Wing's huge fairing... the tiny windscreen of the GS left me nicely exposed to the determined kamikazi-like impacts. Crossing into the first open-field area of Highway 25, a single tak! caught my attention. The second one had me puzzled. The third, dead-on center to the face-shield, left a nice goobery yellow mark that told me these were not road stones or other hazards... instead, the Bugs of Spring had indeed come out.
The novelty of the occasional impact turned to annoying little stings. Even through a leather jacket, those little suckers can hurt a bit. Like most things in cycling, though... you get used to it. The acclimation is helped along by the steady increase from single strikes to a near constant patter when the road strays too close to lush grass.
The bikes got a nice addition to their paintjob, soaking up most of the inbound insect arsenal. If you look at the full-sized version of this image you can better see the layering effect they can have. One's mindset shifts quickly in this situation. Novelty wears into concern; concern hardens into annoyance; annoyance bluntly passes into acceptance. Acceptance smoothly slides into a form of pride, that leaves you grinning. I'm a motorcycler. Bugs? bring it on!. The thicker the coat of bug-guts, the better the war-story. Thank goodness for full-faced helmets, though. I'm not hard-core enough to proudly show off bug-pitted teeth quite yet. The jacket and pants sure had to get a heck of a cleaning, though.The map showed only a roundabout way to get to Parkfield from 198. Jocflier informed me we'd be taking the more direct route; one well suited to our GS bikes. A mere 300 feet to the left of the intersection was the entrance to Peachtree Road, which leads to Indian Valley Road.
These two roads function as one, and tend to be written with a hyphen by other motorcyclers. Peachtree-Indian is about 40 miles long. It's a single lane wide, and not terribly well maintained. There are no signs, no painted marks, no reflectors, no anything... just this single, well-worn track. A few potholes, but nothing scary. A few bits of dirt and grit here and there, but nothing the GS's couldn't handle.Everything I said about the earlier road? Well... that applies here, but in a more robust fashion. While I fear running out of adjectives so early in my ride journalings, I have to admit this road was just utterly stunning. There are no high-speed segments like hwy. 25 had; this one was a completely different feel. If you can imagine a friendly, welcoming little rural road that leads to your Grandmother's house... the kind of thing you'd travel on by foot in the summer as a kid... that's this road. In part of my mind I could see myself while young... trampling my way down through taller grasses to a little farm-pond, fishing rod and bucket in hand. It felt so familiar, so friendly. I could have stopped just about anywhere and spent the afternoon there, in the shade of a tree, just listening to the wind. A strange conflict of emotions arises from this -- the urge to stop and recapture some old memories is in direct conflict with the stronger desire to tackle this road with the motorcycle. It just begged to be travelled. I've got a certain bluefurred friend that I'll get down on this road someday... though his fear of bikes will mean it'll just be a roadtrip. I fear the road will lose some of its wonder while in a cage... but motorcycling truely isn't for everybody.
I have no photos of this part of the trip. I couldn't bring myself to stop and bust the groove of the ride. Instead I'll just point you to the road-report on the pashnit.com site. It's a good read. I'll do my own road-report next trip down.
A sharp left just before the end of Indian Valley looped us back onto Vineyard Canon road. Not quite as pretty, not quite as remote... but still, a decent road. Ten miles and one good ridge later, you get dumped out into the tiny town of Parkfield. Population 37, reads the sign.
We parked our bikes next to three others, under the shade of a grand tree. It'd gotten hot; well over 85f by now. Okay, so that's not terribly hot... but when you're wearing riding leathers, gloves, and a full face helmet it's pretty uncomfortable if you stop and stand in the sun. The shade was welcome. Jocflier made a big deal of this, in fact; sharing tales of rides down to Parkfield in the hot mid-summer months... 98 degrees or higher, but a good 20deg cooler in the shade of this tree, and the porch of the nearby restaurant that was our destination. Admission: A cup of Kindness read the steel sign aside the Parkfield BBQ. The wood-framed building contained a homey calm, and some very friendly locals. You could tell who was the biker, and who lived there, with only a glance. There was no animosity... just a difference in how each group presented itself and held stance. Both groups were relaxed. It was just that the bikers were relaxing as they were glad to rest from the road, while the locals were relaxing because it was just the laid-back thing to do.Jocflier ordered up a pitcher of iced tea, and settled down on the shaded table there on the balcony. The other GS riders hadn't shown yet. Showing his usual preference for keeping his life's pace, Jocflier had us go ahead and order. He figured if the others were going to be late, he sure wasn't going to alter his schedule. Again, that got to me a little... but it wasn't harsh. It was just the way he seemed to interface with life. I can accept that, so it was fine.
We drank iced tea and watched other bikers roll in and out. Various two-wheelers trundled by, from the obnoxiously loud cruiser to the strangely out-of-place-seeming sportbike. One by one they lined up and came inside. Passing the place by wasn't really an option; it was the only real stop for quite some distance.
Eventually two of the bikes that showed up looked like ours. Sure enough, it was Greg Engle and GS-Dave, both from the Bakersfield area. We gave them a hearty welcome, and for the first time Jocflier got social and started talking biker-to-biker, instead of the reserved must keep going, not talking attitude he'd had all morning. In fact, once he got on a roll about a subject, it was hard to get a word in. That's okay, though; I liked listening. Jocflier: if you're reading this, I hope you don't take offense. I honestly found you someone to look up to in terms of motorcycling skill and experience. We may not have meshed well interpersonally, but after a few more rides and hangings-out, it'll go smoother. I just take a while to adapt to others sometimes. :)The steaks were good. Very good, in fact. Apparently, Parkfield is known for cattle drives as much as earthquakes, and this leads to having a good selecton of Dead Cow. Many fine tidbits of motorcycling road-stories were shared, as well as a few suggestions about routes and ways in and out of this area of the state. After lunch ended, we all went out to the bikes for the Obligatory Group Photo.
This involved creative use of the top of some mailboxes and the timer function of my D30 camera. A few tries and a few goofy butt-shots of people running back to get into place after pressing the shutter gave way to this one decent shot. Next time, I'll bring the IR-remote unit! I followed this up with closeups of the various bikes.and a few of Parkfield's few buildings and residents:
In particular, I liked Greg's GPS mount. I'm going to kitbash together something similar for my GS soon. I'm big on navigation toys, and that seems to be a great way to employ them.Finally, it was time to head out. Jocflier rapidly returned to his on a schedule, MUST BE GOING NOW attitude, and the others soon followed suit, trying to keep up. As I still had to pack up the photo gear and re-dress for riding, I was rushed to keep up. I had barely gotten onto my bike before they were already rolling out of the town. I felt a little left-behind... and with good reason. Within a mile, they were long gone. I didn't see them again until all the way back in San Miguel, near Highway 101. They were at the junction where Left meant Bakersfield-bound, and Right meant back up to the Bay. Greg and GS-Dave at least had the courtesy to wait a few minutes and chat, so they could wave bye-bye before they took off. Jocflier was there, and didn't say a word before quickly busting into town. I followed him the two miles to the gas station, which is where I had hoped he'd lead me.
A few brief words about possible routes showed that he was just going to get back on the same road and do 100mph the whole way home. He had guests coming in the evening, and evidently lunch had gone too long for his liking. I wanted to go to the coast, so I was going to have to do it alone. He at least stayed long enough to point at a map a few times, and tell me the route through Ft. Hunter Ligett was a bad idea (post-9/11 security, and some overly challening dirt roads best not tackled alone). He told me to go south to Paseo Robles, and take 46 to the coastline. And with that, he was on his bike and outta there, without a look back. Zoom. I suppose when it's my 50th group ride and not my 2nd, I'll be more used to everybody going their separate ways so blithely.
I gassed up, bought more water, checked and re-checked the packing and bags just to make sure. After a few moments of quiet thought I was able to get rid of most of my bitterness about being left, and shook it out of my system. I hopped back in the saddle and fired the willing engine to life. A light blip of the throttle, then a smooth-roll on, clutching out. The GS and I easily loped up the Highway 101 South entrance ramp, noses to the wind. It wasn't long before I could smell the ocean.
(To be continued and completed in Part 3, in my next journal entry.)
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no subject
Date: 2002-04-02 09:52 am (UTC)Sounds like a WONDERFUL trip, though! It was neat, sharing the adventure vicariously.
no subject
Date: 2002-04-05 11:51 am (UTC)(And yes, that was me leaving the unsigned note on the photo op picture. I realized I hadn't signed it right after I hit the Submit button. Ack.)