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tugrikIt's easy to forget just how many diverse climates there are in even one small part of this state. California's landscape is seemingly unsure of itself, abruptly swapping between mountain, valley, plain and desert. With each of these changes comes a corresponding shift in the air mass above it, that while generally predictable, can still catch one quite by surprise.
This is yet another reason why it's good to be prepared.
Riding south out of San Miguel down Highway 101, it was an overly warm 85 degrees. I was fine while moving; the air rushing over the jacket helped keep temperatures to tolerable levels. Stopping without the benefit of shade was problematic, though. My cheap leather jacket is a nice sun-drinking black, and unlike a real motorcycle jacket the leather is too thin to keep that surface heat from quickly soaking through. While opening the pockets helped, they were no substitute for proper vents like an Aerostitch suit would have. The solution, of course, was to just keep moving. I knew the coast would be cooler, and I had been looking forwards to it ever since leaving the shady porch of the Parkfield BBQ. I'm definately going to have trouble this summer with this cheap jacket; a new solution is in order.
The goal for the trip back was to finally get to see the Big Sur coastline. It's one of the well known road-vistas that I'd somehow managed to avoid during the 9 years of my current California tenure. I knew nothing about it except that it was supposed to be a bigger version of the familiar coastline between Half Moon Bay and San Francisco. Tall cliffs, few services, and great views. My original idea was to cross through Fort Hunter-Liggett and avoid backtracking, but I'd decided against it after Jocflier's warnings. It'd only be another 30 or so miles added on to the trip to loop south through Highway 46, and I figured that wasn't so bad.
Paso Robles isn't much to look at from the highway; not much distinguishes it from most of the other mid-Cali towns on the 101. The exit to 46-West was unremarkable, save for a rather large number of cruiser motorcycles coming towards me. This is a good sign, in my book: the more motorcycles one sees coming down a road, the better the view. This turned out to be very true. The first few miles were simple rolling hills, with the occasional vinyard spralwed between... and then a good bit of Up.
The air cooled as elevation increased; no surprises there. Things went from just this side of too-warm to just right... then a little breezy... then cool. By the time I crested the top, it was colder than when I'd left this morning! Having grown up mostly in the midwest it still boggles me to find a 30 degree difference in such a short span of time. 55 degrees is easy to handle, but at speed it starts to get cold, fast. Cresting the top of the 46's Pacific-wards crossing, I'm sure it would have been an amazing sight... were it not enshrouded in rolling fog. Sunny day went to grey within a short two miles as I drove into the damp roll of Pacific air and followed the lazy bends downhill towards the coast. Please, don't let it rain was the predominant thought lurking in my head.
Lines on maps can be deceiving. On paper, the intersection of 46 and 1 looks like a big deal. Instead, it feels like turning on to a suburban street. There's just a simple stop sign, and a two-lane road with that top-rounded "Hwy 1" green sign. Next to it was the advisory commercial trucks not recommended north of San Simeon and a reminder about Hearst Castle being not too far off. I pulled over at the first gas station I could and slipped on the heavier gloves and the fleece under-jacket. The warmpth they provided once I'd returned to the road had me feeling quite pleased with myself for having brought them along.
Highway 1 heads north with an easy rolling gait, taking gentle turns through coastal flats. San Simeon rolled by not long after, with all it's tourism signs constantly reminding you precisely how many yards it is until Hearst Castle. I'll save that visit for another day -- it was already 4pm and I wanted to be on familiar turf when the sun went down. The blustery fog wasn't as bad as I'd thought once I took off the sunglasses. I had to laugh at myself a bit here... it's amazing how easy it is to forget you're wearing them under the fullface helmet.
The land seems to get bored with its gentle slope to the water, and suddenly takes a sharp lean in. Beaches and open space get replaced by the aggressive interface between vertical rock wall and water. The road clings partway up, like a housecat not wanting to be dropped. Right about here was the sign saying it was 107 miles to Monterey. What the sign doesnt say is that it's almost all going to be diving in and out of clefts and cliffs, instead of the mercifully short segments that I'm used to farther north. It's like someone took Devil's Slide north of Half Moon Bay and figured it'd be better if it was over 100 miles long. The fog was my ally here; I'm sure there were some long-way-down sights that would have unnerved me greatly had I been able to see them. Most of the glimpses I could get of the downhill slope were in sharp "V" canyons where the road wove back inland, and then sharply out again.
If the clefts were big enough, they'd form a pocket that sunshine could get in. The rolling clouds just below the roadway would make it seem like the whole place was floating high above the earth. If nothing else, it reminded me of the ending scenes of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon -- thankfully without pretty leading-ladies throwing themselves off into the fog. At other times, the clear-spots would widen and a few miles of the coastline would be visible. The first time a safe stopping-point coincided with a break in the fog, I pulled over and got off for a leg-stretch.
I'd barely made it the first quarter of the way; a mere 25 miles. It had felt like 50. This was the point where I realized there was no way I'd make it back before nightfall, and I could either accept it and enjoy the ride at a more leisurely pace, or spend the entire time worrying about finding a motel up in Monterey on an Easter weekend. Taking off the helmet and sitting there on the ledge for a bit helped. Yes, I was 155 miles from home, with half of those miles being a serious challenge. It took me a minute to convince myself that it was only 155 miles, and that was no big deal at all. I'm hoping other long-time motorcyclers can still remember what it was like to be new and have that feeling of slight dread at being caught out farther than you think you should be -- it's humbling. It's something that experience will cure, so I just need to keep on doing it.
It took a few minutes to walk around and shake out all the kinks. The ergonomics of the GS do leave something to be desired, now that the day had reached 260 miles in-saddle. I snapped off a handful of photos, and as I was gearing up I asked a nice lady nearby if she'd be so kind as to snap a picture of me with the bike. She was glad to oblige, though the guy sitting in the car waiting for her seemed a bit irked by the delay. I thanked her muchly and got back on the road, camera re-stowed safely in the tankbag.
Another 30 miles of supremely curvy road had passed below the GS's knobby tires. Just before the tiny town of Lucia, the road bent in sharply to yet another cliff-notch... but on the other side I could see a large number of cars parked in the unusually wide shoulder. While I needed the break to rest, I told myself I was only stopping to satisfy my curiosity, and I was Tough Enough I could keep going if I wanted to. Yeah, right. :)
While the GS is notably lighter than the 'wing, it's still a challenge to park on non-level terrain. It's a very tall bike, and with my 32" inseam I can only barely flat-foot it at stoplights. It took a bit to finagle the right spot between the haphazardly parked sedans and SUV's. It was just challenging enough that I felt obliged to take a picture. A few hundred feet down off the roadside showed what all the fuss was about: a rather energetic waterfall carving its way down to the ocean. There was a trail to hike right up to it's base, but I wasn't quite up for it. The 135mm printed on the lens of the camera means that I could at least get a decent shot from the roadside, though.
Traffic had been light most of the way, which is surprising for a holiday weekend. I pretty much had my own run of the road when I wished to... due to luck as much as the low number of cars. Strangely, I'd seen no other motorcyclers the entire time, and here I was halfway up the coast. While getting back to the bike to gear up once more, I heard the familiar rumble of V-Twin engines echoing down the little canyon, and for the first time saw other bikers going my way.
Each one waved as the corner straighted out and they passed my position. I had my helmet at my feet while I was clicking off the frames, so they knew I was a fellow motorcycler. For those of you that don't ride, that's one of the nice perks: bikers wave to other bikers, and for the most part are incredibly friendly to one another when meeting in the wild. Before I could pack up, a few more shot by, going the other way.
Gear up, stow the camera, climb on. Watch for traffic, walk it backwards. Suddenly I realize... the parking I'd so proudly congradulated myself on was not that good at all. One of the Oh, Crap moments of the trip resulted. Where I'd chosen to stop I couldn't safely see oncoming traffic for a long enough distance. I couldn't bend my head back far enough to see around the curve's innermost bend. It was a tense few moments as I tried to judge when I'd have enough time to safely get back in lane and clutch my way up a rather steep starting slope. As I turned the handlebars and revved up to go... BEEEEEEEEEEP
Okay, don't panic. Simly get OUT of the way. Straighten the bars, push forwards, get Off The Road. Panic later, when you won't get hit by a car.
Only... there was no car. In fact, there was no traffic at all. Instead, that adrenaline-producing alert was my own bike's horn. Aaaiugh!
I'd been warned by other GS owners that the tankbag I'd selected, made by the German company Wunderlich, was slightly too wide for the bike. When the handlebars are at full lock to one direction or the other, you'll either turn on a turn signal or... yup, that's right... sound the horn. A motorcycle at full-lock is already a bit unruly; they're easy to tip over with the front wheel turned so much. Being on an odd slope and in potential traffic didn't help. That horn sounding was the last thing I needed, and I'd almost dropped the bike in pure panic.
Quickly getting up to speed and on the road, I came to two conclusions. For one, I was really mad at myself for doing something so dumb and nearly laying down the bike. At the same time, I was quite pleased with myself that'd I'd controlled the panic, kept the bike up, and Got Out Of the Way near instinctively. This means my fledgling safety-instincts at least have a foundation to work upon now, whereas they were non-existant six months ago. The low and high feelings cancelled each other out pretty well, and I'd calmed down after a few miles.
As the photos show, the fog had mostly lifted. I thought it was pretty strange; normally the fog is gone in the middle of the day and comes back in the evening, not the other way around. I've sitll got a lot to learn about pacific coast weather. I could now see the heights at which I was travelling. I would have stopped for many more pictures were it not for the lateness of the day. Another 25 miles, and the road goes inland for the first time, a hair away from the coast. Trees line both sides of the road, and you pop into the tiny tourist trap of Big Sur.
I stopped at a little restaurant-and-Shell station for gas. I had plenty of range left in the tank, but again it was easier to tell myself hey, stopping for gas is a good idea instead of admitting I just needed a break. The little station had a restaurant, a much needed set of outhouses, and a strange assortment of cacti amidst a few art gallery buildings. The combination of the hippie/trendy art studios and more rugged 'cabin in the mountains' living was a bit odd. While I was sipping a hot cocoa at the store there, both dirt-gnarled 4x4s and stretch limos pulled through to gas up. From what I could tell, the town of Big Sur is about as far south as the yuppie-vacationing crowd goes. The little store was a bit schitzophrenic as a result. Out of one side they'd sell simple groceries and essentials to the residents pulling up in VW microbuses, while the other entryway served overdressed, limo-chaffeured vacationers $80 dinners created by a chef with his name on the menus. I took in a little of both, buying a Gatorade from the one side to stuff in the tank bag, and poking my head into the bakery for a two-fist-sized loaf of Tibetan Honeywheat Bread that cost $8. To their credit, that was some of the best non-sourdough bread I've ever had.
Sunlight was fading as I got into Monterey, and the fog was returning. Rounding the coast by Marina, it rolled in thick. By the time I was halfway to Watsonville, it was like rain that simply couldn't get up the effort to fall -- it was just going to hang there midair and let you run into it. I found the thumb-squeegie built into my left hand glove to be a nice invention indeed -- thank you, Joe Rocket. The trip length had seriously gotten to me at this point, and while I knew I was almost back in familiar territory, I could feel the worry creeping back into my brain. I was cranky and sore, and I couldn't see worth a damn... and the holiday travellers trying to wedge their way back to Santa Cruz from a lazy touring of Monterey just had me on my nerves. The trip had been great, but at this moment I just wanting it to be Over.
Just before Watsonville, the road came to an almost complete stop. Beside me pulled up an african-american fellow in a rather expensive convertable sportscar. He looked over my bike, front to rear, and then just smiled. Waving to get my attention, he leaned out towards me. I flipped up the face-shield so I could hear him better.
"Man, that's an incredible bike. Wow. Where you comin' from?"
"I just finished riding most of the Big Sur coastline. Came up from the 46, after a good riding day down through Hollister."
"Oh, man, that's a long way! And you rode in _this_ weather? Hardcore, dude... Hard Core. I wish I had the guts to do that."
I, of course, didn't know much what to say. Other bikers reading this blog are probably thinking how much a wuss I am for being so tired on such a short day-ride. But to this guy... he was honestly impressed. And moreso, here he was driving what was easily an $80,000 car, and he was coveting my little two-wheeled Beemer. So... I just smiled, and said "Thanks!" in that staccato-way that shouting between vehicles requires.
"I really wish I had a bike like that..." he trailed off, looking once more at the blue-anodized cylinder head of the Boxer engine behind my front wheel. Traffic started to free up, and he leaned back into his seat, giving me a thumbs-up as he pulled away.
This simple encounter did wonders for my morale. "Hard core". Riiight. But still, I could bask in it just a little. I figured folks would forgive me for that. :)
Turning off onto Highway 152, I was now on home turf. The climb up the east side of Mt. Madonna was as simple as always, with almost no traffic in sight. Cresting the top I cleared the fog... and the night sky was perfectly clear. It was also 15 degrees warmer, almost instantly. The moonlight was just enough that I could see the fogbank going up and down the coast, making me even more glad I'd chosen this pass instead of slogging another 20 miles up to Santa Cruz and over Highway 17. The way back down into Morgan Hill, then through Uvas Canyon to home in South San Jose was wonderfully uneventful. Pull in to the garage, dismount, de-gear. The tripometer said "415"... so much for the "only 300-or-so" miles I'd planned upon today. I patted my bike on the front fender like a one would rub the nose of a trusty horse, shut off the garage light and wandered in to the house to tell the roomates about my day.
So much for a simple Saturday ride. I'd better go check the ADVRider board to see where next weekend will lead.
--Tug
This is yet another reason why it's good to be prepared.
Riding south out of San Miguel down Highway 101, it was an overly warm 85 degrees. I was fine while moving; the air rushing over the jacket helped keep temperatures to tolerable levels. Stopping without the benefit of shade was problematic, though. My cheap leather jacket is a nice sun-drinking black, and unlike a real motorcycle jacket the leather is too thin to keep that surface heat from quickly soaking through. While opening the pockets helped, they were no substitute for proper vents like an Aerostitch suit would have. The solution, of course, was to just keep moving. I knew the coast would be cooler, and I had been looking forwards to it ever since leaving the shady porch of the Parkfield BBQ. I'm definately going to have trouble this summer with this cheap jacket; a new solution is in order.
The goal for the trip back was to finally get to see the Big Sur coastline. It's one of the well known road-vistas that I'd somehow managed to avoid during the 9 years of my current California tenure. I knew nothing about it except that it was supposed to be a bigger version of the familiar coastline between Half Moon Bay and San Francisco. Tall cliffs, few services, and great views. My original idea was to cross through Fort Hunter-Liggett and avoid backtracking, but I'd decided against it after Jocflier's warnings. It'd only be another 30 or so miles added on to the trip to loop south through Highway 46, and I figured that wasn't so bad.
Paso Robles isn't much to look at from the highway; not much distinguishes it from most of the other mid-Cali towns on the 101. The exit to 46-West was unremarkable, save for a rather large number of cruiser motorcycles coming towards me. This is a good sign, in my book: the more motorcycles one sees coming down a road, the better the view. This turned out to be very true. The first few miles were simple rolling hills, with the occasional vinyard spralwed between... and then a good bit of Up.
The air cooled as elevation increased; no surprises there. Things went from just this side of too-warm to just right... then a little breezy... then cool. By the time I crested the top, it was colder than when I'd left this morning! Having grown up mostly in the midwest it still boggles me to find a 30 degree difference in such a short span of time. 55 degrees is easy to handle, but at speed it starts to get cold, fast. Cresting the top of the 46's Pacific-wards crossing, I'm sure it would have been an amazing sight... were it not enshrouded in rolling fog. Sunny day went to grey within a short two miles as I drove into the damp roll of Pacific air and followed the lazy bends downhill towards the coast. Please, don't let it rain was the predominant thought lurking in my head.
Lines on maps can be deceiving. On paper, the intersection of 46 and 1 looks like a big deal. Instead, it feels like turning on to a suburban street. There's just a simple stop sign, and a two-lane road with that top-rounded "Hwy 1" green sign. Next to it was the advisory commercial trucks not recommended north of San Simeon and a reminder about Hearst Castle being not too far off. I pulled over at the first gas station I could and slipped on the heavier gloves and the fleece under-jacket. The warmpth they provided once I'd returned to the road had me feeling quite pleased with myself for having brought them along.
Highway 1 heads north with an easy rolling gait, taking gentle turns through coastal flats. San Simeon rolled by not long after, with all it's tourism signs constantly reminding you precisely how many yards it is until Hearst Castle. I'll save that visit for another day -- it was already 4pm and I wanted to be on familiar turf when the sun went down. The blustery fog wasn't as bad as I'd thought once I took off the sunglasses. I had to laugh at myself a bit here... it's amazing how easy it is to forget you're wearing them under the fullface helmet.
The land seems to get bored with its gentle slope to the water, and suddenly takes a sharp lean in. Beaches and open space get replaced by the aggressive interface between vertical rock wall and water. The road clings partway up, like a housecat not wanting to be dropped. Right about here was the sign saying it was 107 miles to Monterey. What the sign doesnt say is that it's almost all going to be diving in and out of clefts and cliffs, instead of the mercifully short segments that I'm used to farther north. It's like someone took Devil's Slide north of Half Moon Bay and figured it'd be better if it was over 100 miles long. The fog was my ally here; I'm sure there were some long-way-down sights that would have unnerved me greatly had I been able to see them. Most of the glimpses I could get of the downhill slope were in sharp "V" canyons where the road wove back inland, and then sharply out again.
If the clefts were big enough, they'd form a pocket that sunshine could get in. The rolling clouds just below the roadway would make it seem like the whole place was floating high above the earth. If nothing else, it reminded me of the ending scenes of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon -- thankfully without pretty leading-ladies throwing themselves off into the fog. At other times, the clear-spots would widen and a few miles of the coastline would be visible. The first time a safe stopping-point coincided with a break in the fog, I pulled over and got off for a leg-stretch.
I'd barely made it the first quarter of the way; a mere 25 miles. It had felt like 50. This was the point where I realized there was no way I'd make it back before nightfall, and I could either accept it and enjoy the ride at a more leisurely pace, or spend the entire time worrying about finding a motel up in Monterey on an Easter weekend. Taking off the helmet and sitting there on the ledge for a bit helped. Yes, I was 155 miles from home, with half of those miles being a serious challenge. It took me a minute to convince myself that it was only 155 miles, and that was no big deal at all. I'm hoping other long-time motorcyclers can still remember what it was like to be new and have that feeling of slight dread at being caught out farther than you think you should be -- it's humbling. It's something that experience will cure, so I just need to keep on doing it. It took a few minutes to walk around and shake out all the kinks. The ergonomics of the GS do leave something to be desired, now that the day had reached 260 miles in-saddle. I snapped off a handful of photos, and as I was gearing up I asked a nice lady nearby if she'd be so kind as to snap a picture of me with the bike. She was glad to oblige, though the guy sitting in the car waiting for her seemed a bit irked by the delay. I thanked her muchly and got back on the road, camera re-stowed safely in the tankbag.Another 30 miles of supremely curvy road had passed below the GS's knobby tires. Just before the tiny town of Lucia, the road bent in sharply to yet another cliff-notch... but on the other side I could see a large number of cars parked in the unusually wide shoulder. While I needed the break to rest, I told myself I was only stopping to satisfy my curiosity, and I was Tough Enough I could keep going if I wanted to. Yeah, right. :)
While the GS is notably lighter than the 'wing, it's still a challenge to park on non-level terrain. It's a very tall bike, and with my 32" inseam I can only barely flat-foot it at stoplights. It took a bit to finagle the right spot between the haphazardly parked sedans and SUV's. It was just challenging enough that I felt obliged to take a picture. A few hundred feet down off the roadside showed what all the fuss was about: a rather energetic waterfall carving its way down to the ocean. There was a trail to hike right up to it's base, but I wasn't quite up for it. The 135mm printed on the lens of the camera means that I could at least get a decent shot from the roadside, though.Traffic had been light most of the way, which is surprising for a holiday weekend. I pretty much had my own run of the road when I wished to... due to luck as much as the low number of cars. Strangely, I'd seen no other motorcyclers the entire time, and here I was halfway up the coast. While getting back to the bike to gear up once more, I heard the familiar rumble of V-Twin engines echoing down the little canyon, and for the first time saw other bikers going my way.
Each one waved as the corner straighted out and they passed my position. I had my helmet at my feet while I was clicking off the frames, so they knew I was a fellow motorcycler. For those of you that don't ride, that's one of the nice perks: bikers wave to other bikers, and for the most part are incredibly friendly to one another when meeting in the wild. Before I could pack up, a few more shot by, going the other way.
Gear up, stow the camera, climb on. Watch for traffic, walk it backwards. Suddenly I realize... the parking I'd so proudly congradulated myself on was not that good at all. One of the Oh, Crap moments of the trip resulted. Where I'd chosen to stop I couldn't safely see oncoming traffic for a long enough distance. I couldn't bend my head back far enough to see around the curve's innermost bend. It was a tense few moments as I tried to judge when I'd have enough time to safely get back in lane and clutch my way up a rather steep starting slope. As I turned the handlebars and revved up to go... BEEEEEEEEEEP
Okay, don't panic. Simly get OUT of the way. Straighten the bars, push forwards, get Off The Road. Panic later, when you won't get hit by a car.
Only... there was no car. In fact, there was no traffic at all. Instead, that adrenaline-producing alert was my own bike's horn. Aaaiugh!
I'd been warned by other GS owners that the tankbag I'd selected, made by the German company Wunderlich, was slightly too wide for the bike. When the handlebars are at full lock to one direction or the other, you'll either turn on a turn signal or... yup, that's right... sound the horn. A motorcycle at full-lock is already a bit unruly; they're easy to tip over with the front wheel turned so much. Being on an odd slope and in potential traffic didn't help. That horn sounding was the last thing I needed, and I'd almost dropped the bike in pure panic.
Quickly getting up to speed and on the road, I came to two conclusions. For one, I was really mad at myself for doing something so dumb and nearly laying down the bike. At the same time, I was quite pleased with myself that'd I'd controlled the panic, kept the bike up, and Got Out Of the Way near instinctively. This means my fledgling safety-instincts at least have a foundation to work upon now, whereas they were non-existant six months ago. The low and high feelings cancelled each other out pretty well, and I'd calmed down after a few miles.
As the photos show, the fog had mostly lifted. I thought it was pretty strange; normally the fog is gone in the middle of the day and comes back in the evening, not the other way around. I've sitll got a lot to learn about pacific coast weather. I could now see the heights at which I was travelling. I would have stopped for many more pictures were it not for the lateness of the day. Another 25 miles, and the road goes inland for the first time, a hair away from the coast. Trees line both sides of the road, and you pop into the tiny tourist trap of Big Sur.
I stopped at a little restaurant-and-Shell station for gas. I had plenty of range left in the tank, but again it was easier to tell myself hey, stopping for gas is a good idea instead of admitting I just needed a break. The little station had a restaurant, a much needed set of outhouses, and a strange assortment of cacti amidst a few art gallery buildings. The combination of the hippie/trendy art studios and more rugged 'cabin in the mountains' living was a bit odd. While I was sipping a hot cocoa at the store there, both dirt-gnarled 4x4s and stretch limos pulled through to gas up. From what I could tell, the town of Big Sur is about as far south as the yuppie-vacationing crowd goes. The little store was a bit schitzophrenic as a result. Out of one side they'd sell simple groceries and essentials to the residents pulling up in VW microbuses, while the other entryway served overdressed, limo-chaffeured vacationers $80 dinners created by a chef with his name on the menus. I took in a little of both, buying a Gatorade from the one side to stuff in the tank bag, and poking my head into the bakery for a two-fist-sized loaf of Tibetan Honeywheat Bread that cost $8. To their credit, that was some of the best non-sourdough bread I've ever had.Sunlight was fading as I got into Monterey, and the fog was returning. Rounding the coast by Marina, it rolled in thick. By the time I was halfway to Watsonville, it was like rain that simply couldn't get up the effort to fall -- it was just going to hang there midair and let you run into it. I found the thumb-squeegie built into my left hand glove to be a nice invention indeed -- thank you, Joe Rocket. The trip length had seriously gotten to me at this point, and while I knew I was almost back in familiar territory, I could feel the worry creeping back into my brain. I was cranky and sore, and I couldn't see worth a damn... and the holiday travellers trying to wedge their way back to Santa Cruz from a lazy touring of Monterey just had me on my nerves. The trip had been great, but at this moment I just wanting it to be Over.
Just before Watsonville, the road came to an almost complete stop. Beside me pulled up an african-american fellow in a rather expensive convertable sportscar. He looked over my bike, front to rear, and then just smiled. Waving to get my attention, he leaned out towards me. I flipped up the face-shield so I could hear him better.
"Man, that's an incredible bike. Wow. Where you comin' from?"
"I just finished riding most of the Big Sur coastline. Came up from the 46, after a good riding day down through Hollister."
"Oh, man, that's a long way! And you rode in _this_ weather? Hardcore, dude... Hard Core. I wish I had the guts to do that."
I, of course, didn't know much what to say. Other bikers reading this blog are probably thinking how much a wuss I am for being so tired on such a short day-ride. But to this guy... he was honestly impressed. And moreso, here he was driving what was easily an $80,000 car, and he was coveting my little two-wheeled Beemer. So... I just smiled, and said "Thanks!" in that staccato-way that shouting between vehicles requires.
"I really wish I had a bike like that..." he trailed off, looking once more at the blue-anodized cylinder head of the Boxer engine behind my front wheel. Traffic started to free up, and he leaned back into his seat, giving me a thumbs-up as he pulled away.
This simple encounter did wonders for my morale. "Hard core". Riiight. But still, I could bask in it just a little. I figured folks would forgive me for that. :)
Turning off onto Highway 152, I was now on home turf. The climb up the east side of Mt. Madonna was as simple as always, with almost no traffic in sight. Cresting the top I cleared the fog... and the night sky was perfectly clear. It was also 15 degrees warmer, almost instantly. The moonlight was just enough that I could see the fogbank going up and down the coast, making me even more glad I'd chosen this pass instead of slogging another 20 miles up to Santa Cruz and over Highway 17. The way back down into Morgan Hill, then through Uvas Canyon to home in South San Jose was wonderfully uneventful. Pull in to the garage, dismount, de-gear. The tripometer said "415"... so much for the "only 300-or-so" miles I'd planned upon today. I patted my bike on the front fender like a one would rub the nose of a trusty horse, shut off the garage light and wandered in to the house to tell the roomates about my day.
So much for a simple Saturday ride. I'd better go check the ADVRider board to see where next weekend will lead.
--Tug
