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.
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