Let the Rabbits Run

Thar be rabbits on the road for any given ride; those vehicles that push the speed limit beyond my comfort zone, up to 15 MPH faster at 80+ and they are mostly obnoxious about it, approaching fast and getting right on fenders trying to intimidate the other vehicle into moving over even if they are in the process of passing another one to the right. They can be anything on wheels from mini-vans with a carload of kids they don’t care about to bikers to SUVs and anything smaller that the driver doesn’t mind torturing to that speed, you know, like Sentras. I call them rabbits because I like to let them run up ahead and draw the law-dogs’ attention while I stretch my personal ticket-safe speeds.

It’s the ICBMs on the road that you really have to watch out for, they push their speed to 100, weave in and out of traffic at will and they think everybody sees them and will come from your blind spot and weave in front of you within inches of your fender. I find it best to be aware of them and not to make any sudden accommodating move that they might not anticipate.

I took a weekend trip up to Brentwood in the Bay Area to see my cousin Lee, closest thing to an older brother that I have, and his wife Kathy who are now staying with their daughter Jennifer and her family. I opted for my Victory Cross Country and a more scenic route than Highway 5 up the middle of the state when it was apparent that I wouldn’t need a car. I took the 210 freeway to the Highway 118 that heads west and in the town of Moorpark turns into a two lane road and took me through the agricultural corridor to Highway 101 right about where it rejoins the US 1, The Pacific Coast Highway; they split again at about Los Cruces, the 101 continuing on as the El Camino Real. My plan was to take the 101 up to US 680 and on into Brentwood, only using my GPS after lunch to zero in on Jen’s place.

I really like the section of the 101 from Ventura on up to Salinas, even when the ag-traffic picks up after King City (where I put the GPS to work) with tractors and trucks getting on and off the road. Hugging the coastline early on I had the Pacific Ocean to the horizon on my left and the rugged coastline stretching out before me and dotted with great beaches like Carpentaria, El Capitan, Refugio, and finally Gaviota as the 101 heads inland through a little pass with a short tunnel where I dropped down a gear and jumped on it (see Baritone Solo for why). I was happily alone with my thoughts and prayers, thoughts for my writing and prayers for friends and family, particularly my folks and Lee. I let the rabbits run along the coastline with no thought of stretching the speeds; I used them liberally from Las Cruces on up.

I trusted my little GPS app Waze and it betrayed me taking me off the 680 on to an eight mile stretch of surface streets and a quasi-country road only to get back to the 680 for about 150 yards and off again to where it really got interesting. I was directed on to Calaveras Road that skirted by the reservoir of the same name. This was a fun road, full of challenges, twisties to the max. The engineers didn’t even bother putting a centerline in it because that would have indicated that only motorcycles could pass each other and stay in the lanes. It was tight, brothers and sisters, and traveled by rabbits who used the road for commuting every day. Two were on my tailpipe so I let them run on by to pave the way for me while I stayed with them the rest of the way to more two-lane roads into Brentwood. I suppose that route saved me from sitting in freeway traffic since I don’t split lanes. I would have enjoyed it a lot more if I didn’t already have 400 miles behind me and I knew it was coming.

Coming home, I used Highway 5 from Walnut Creek after my great visit with family and then my friends Jim and Shirley. This run was notable only for a couple things, the light traffic by leaving on a Sunday morning and spectacular rabbit. Actually, she drove a VW Passat wagon and drove it exquisitely. She had come up behind me to the left and then I got in behind her and stayed there from Patterson until she got off at Buttonwillow, 110 miles of following the best rabbit ever at a few miles over my ticket-safe zone but never becoming an attention getter. She never got obnoxious with the other drivers she approached; if they didn’t move over she would do so in plenty of time not to panic or slow down much. Every move was signaled; a few times I would anticipate and make the change first giving her a clear lane change. We were an ad hoc caravan of two and when she slowed to exit at Buttonwillow we acknowledged each other as I passed to head on home, her with an electric smile, me with a thumbs up.

Y’all watch the ICBMs and keep the iron side up.

Baritone Solo in the Angeles National Forest

I kicked over the motor of my Victory Cross Country at about six on a Thursday morning careful not to rev it too much in deference to my neighbors. The V-Twin, 106ci engine and exhaust combine for a nice baritone sound, at least to my musically challenged ears. To get to a deep bass sound I’d have to modify the system and it seems that comes with a decibel increase which goes against my quiet nature. The early start got me headed up the Angeles Crest Highway and into the Angeles National Forest by six thirty that morning. There is one spot after getting onto the Angeles Forest Highway where I break with my native desire for quiet and that touches a part of my lingering, childlike joy at hearing my own voice echoed back. That is in a nice little tunnel along the road there where I have to crank it up just to hear the rumble come back to me and to feel the reverberations. I think we’ve all seen the look of wonder on a kid’s face as they let out a whoop to hear it come back in a canyon or even a room of any size that echoes. The look is almost always punctuated with a smile, the glee rocking the child’s whole being – I say nurture it.

The early start coincided with a nice onshore marine layer of fog whose tendrils wound their way up the canyons of the lower elevations and bubbled over where the canyon met the winding road. They were like witches’ cauldrons with steamy tendrils snaking out as if to grab me as I into leaned the corners.

It was an ideal day to wind around in the mountains, no alto-tenor street-racers buzzing along pushing the envelope and on this morning the inbound commercial traffic all headed on up toward Mt. Wilson instead out to Palmdale. I rode against the commuter traffic of the high-desert dwellers “beating” the always backed up Highway 14 to the 5 junction. These are a variety of cagers with a sprinkling of bikes who travel the road every weekday and know it like an old friend. Many of them are trying to make time not too dissimilar from the weekend sport bikers, pushing the envelope, and sometimes thinking nothing of being within a car length of the next guy in some moronic effort to intimate them into driving off the side of the road so they can pass. They often drift well over the double yellow line to the inside of curves ignorant, or just plain uncaring, that there might be someone with the nerve to be going the other direction. As the Angeles Forest Highway empties out toward the Antelope Valley there are a couple of the straightaways, one lane each way, where I was thankful for my extra riding lights but nevertheless considered where I could put more and still keep the sleek look of my bike. It seemed that Parnelli Jones was their tutor as some drivers popped out to pass only to see me coming along to block their maneuver, forcing them to pop back in line.

I had a breakfast date with my friend Kathy from my days as an AT&T Broadcast Video Planner and hers as the Television Operating Center Area Manager. We hadn’t gotten together in well over a year and Kathy is living her dream in Marrakesh living there six months of the year and working among the people there while learning to love and understand the land and culture. We had a great visit while we ate at Karen’s Kitchen in Quartz Hill, a nice local eatery with locals coming in and out, Kathy as one of them. I sometimes envy her pursuit of her dream and then I have to realize that my riding and even my writing are my dreams, my way of understanding and loving the road and hopefully coming to a deeper understanding of what makes me tick. Writing can do that; the world is a blank page until it is written on.

My friends, pursue your dreams, yell into the canyons and tunnels of life just to hear them yell back, come to a deeper understanding, and watch the drifters you encounter along the way.

Y’all keep the iron side up.