Angels in the Aisles

There were angels in the aisles as we practiced our grief and rose above it to celebrate all that had been and is Dorie Shaw.

Five of them lined up at the microphone to speak of her compassion and the love she had for her grandchildren. These angels were well spoken and did their grandmother proud. We know that their Nani will always be their sunshine.

Three others had preceded the five, thankful for their mother’s life and what she brought them: a childlike endearment, humor, and a love for dressing just right. Dorie’s passion for serving, living the moment for family, and her faith are their inheritance.

Another angel ranged about the hall bestowing wings to be pinned on lapels, shirt pockets, and blouses – mementos that call attention to the angel in everyone there. Still more roamed among the congregants and hugged it out, blessings passed from one angel to another.

Others rose and spoke of the Dorie Shaw they know and love, her Godliness and devotion and her steadfastness to friends.

It was all so fitting in the face of a dastardly foe that found it impossible to wipe away all that Dorie Shaw is.

Soon we’ll put the wind in Kevin’s face again to help erode the travails at his great loss and bring forward all those good things that can fill his heart.

Remember the part you play as angels in the aisles, on the road, and in the home and do not shy away from bestowing heartfelt words, caring looks, or hearty hugs that will buoy up a brother or sister in need.

Peace

jerry

One and the Same – Ride Lead and Sweeper

Morro Rock from the end of CA Highway 41

My summer ride for 2017 is over and it’s time to look in the rearview mirror and reflect a bit. I haven’t said much about the last two days of the ride and that’s because they were somewhat unremarkable compared to my ride out to Pahrump in fantastic weather, the ride around and up to Mount Charleston, and the big ride-day from Pahrump through Death Valley and Yosemite to Fresno. Really though, that’s not exactly fair – I was riding a motorcycle and that is remarkable.

The day after rolling into Fresno I completed the traverse of CA Highway 41 by riding to its terminus in Morro Bay. I commented on this in Facebook that there is something to be said for completing a highway from end-to-end and that I’d write it if I figured out what it was to be said. Still got nothing on that except it feels right. My final day of riding brought me home down PCH to CA Highway 118 and the 210 Freeway. Morro Bay is a worthy destination as is home.

Highway 41 from Fresno to the coast is notable mostly for the two-lane road experience, most of which is through agricultural country complete with agri-vehicles that slow things down; trucks, tractors, and such. One needs to stay in touch with reality when passing these big vehicles and I witnessed a couple of close calls for the impatient folks stacked up in front of me. The agricultural area extends beyond US Highway 5 for a time until you weave into the foothills of the coastal range. At that point CA Highway 46 and 41 coincide for a time, once they separate there is sign suggesting trucks use 46. That’s because 41 narrows and gets into twistiness through Atascadaro and into the town of Morro Bay. By far, that was the most fun stretch for the day’s ride as I was behind a local, once again, and she wanted to push the pace and I wanted to make use of her native familiarity with the road.

I could have easily done a full day’s riding from Fresno to Morro Bay and on to home and would have if I didn’t have a reservation for the night. I was glad that I’d stayed over and enjoyed a walk around Morro Bay snagging an old motorcycle book and getting a close look at a sea otter in the harbor. I’ll be back.

Now to the title of this post – something I thought about during the ride is what it means to travel solo over several days or even for one long ride-day. The ride leader and sweeper are one in the same and there is no one to blame but yourself for getting lost or stuck all by yourself.

Consider for a moment the responsibilities of the Ride Captain or Lead Rider. That person is responsible for the safety of the riders and the smooth running of the ride; including planning, thinking ahead, communication, and decision making for unforeseen events. The ride leader also establishes a comfortable pace for all the riders in the group and picks a good line for twists and turns and negotiating traffic. It’s up to the ride leader not to make a move that all the riders in the group cannot make or close the gap afterwards in a reasonable way. If you’re solo, that simplifies most of it but it also puts reading the right line squarely on your own shoulders and is something that slows my own pace a bit,.

The sweeper, or sweep, or Tail End Charlie, is the last rider in line and is a rider with a lot of experience if not the most experience. It’s their job to ensure everyone else in the group arrives at the destination safely. Other terms I’ve found for this rider are back door, tail gunner, or Ride Lieutenant. I’ve driven as the sweep in caravans and think of myself in that situation as the mother hen watching over the brood, keeping everyone in front and together. On a ride, the sweep needs to keep in contact with the ride-lead and radio communication between the two is best, otherwise you must rely on hand signals. The sweep can provide a bit of a traffic break if they are aware or anticipate maneuvers the leader is going to make.

Only twice have I been uncomfortable in a group ride and both times they were lead or organized poorly. Once during my first ever group ride with the VMC when the return trip disintegrated at a stop sign and everybody went back to the hotel willy-nilly. The other time was a badly organized toy ride with a hundred bikes going through several freeway junctions – it was a bad scene and we were luck nothing happened. I have otherwise ridden with the best leaders and sweeps in all senses of the titles.

The word that is paramount to the ride leader, sweep, and everybody in between is vigilance. Always be aware of the others, the road conditions, traffic concerns, and yourself. Strangely enough, if you’re solo, you need to double your vigilance because you’ve got nobody setting your pace or covering your six. A big part of your personal vigilance is being completely honest with yourself on how you’re feeling, how comfortable you are in the current conditions, and your personal capabilities as a rider. In a group, that honesty needs to extend toward the others; in particular, the ride leader.

Be prepared, be vigilant, keep the pace and by all means, forever keep the iron side up.

Peace

jerry

Final tripmeter reading - should I have gone around the block to tick over 1300 miles?

No Evidence of the Coming Dawn

Tanya Lake, Yosemite

My kickstand was up and there was no evidence of the coming dawn. The map programs all said it would take me twelve hours for the day’s ride so I set myself up to push off between 5 and 5:30 a.m. I hit the sweet spot at 5:15 as I left the Pahrump Nugget Hotel and Casino, heavy on the casino. The hotel seemed to be an add-on. The smell of the casino smoke permeated my non-smoking room and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. It served its purpose and that was about it.

I’d ridden up to Mount Charleston and back the day before but didn’t feel like writing it. The experience was anticlimactic. I’d built it up when writing the scene for my character with all this wonderful twisty riding to be done. Don’t get me wrong, there were a few miles of it and the views were fantastic. But, I’ll have to rewrite the scene because the lodge is nowhere near the top or close to the ski runs. The Rueben was tasty though.

Back to today’s ride, a fantastic experience. I hope I can do it justice here. For the record, I rode up through the Death Valley National Park then north on Highway 395 to Lee Vining, up into and through Yosemite National Park, and down to Fresno for the night – 446.3 miles, KSU to check-in.

Leaving as early as I did put me in the darkest of desert nights riding along unfamiliar roads. This was the time of night all the creatures are out, both predator and prey. I worked hard at not outrunning my headlight. Once I was out of town and rolling down Bell Vista Ave. toward CA 190 which took me into and through the Death Valley National Park, locals started to catch me. You can tell locals because they drive the roads like it’s nobody’s business and you’d better get out of the way. Want to increase you’re speed at night on unfamiliar roads? Stay on a local’s six and you pick up five to ten miles per hour. You only really need to keep your light on their tail and you’ve increased visibility of the road by the length of their high beams. Nifty.

The beauty of heading northwest is when the sun comes up it’s not in your eyes. The bad part is the fantastic sunrise is behind you and you can only snap a helmet cam photo in the mirror.

The locals all dropped off the road at various mining pursuits and some mysterious concern going on under a huge tent. By then I had light and got into some twisties that lead into Death Valley. This is my favorite time of day in the desert, when the sun is low and the harshness of the environment is muted to the point I can be seduced into thinking it’s that lovely all the time. Evenings somewhat restore those thoughts but can’t quite erase the reminders of the blistering heat of the day.

I stopped at Stovepipe Wells for a quick drink and then pushed on out of the park after periodically riding by ‘Flooded’ signs and skirting around standing water that lent credibility to the signs. I was just as happy to be above sea level again and working my way up the Panamint Mountains. All the way through to Lone Pine I thought back to one of my favorite group-rides where we’d ridden the opposite direction I went today. 

In Lone Pine I refueled man and machine at a Shell/Carl’s Junior. I just made it to the head of the line as the place was invaded by Germans, at least three 7/8-passenger SUVs full of them, each vehicle flying a German flag. And they were having a blast fooling around while filling the SUVs and washing the windows until they found out Carl’s didn’t carry espresso, then things got serious.

The run up Highway 395 was uneventful during a lightly travelled Wednesday morning. It was easy going and I set my cruise control at a reasonable speed so as not to attract attention and still be able to eat the miles only slowing for the periodic town that straddles the highway; Lone Pine, Pines, Big Pine, Bishop… The temperature started dropping into the low 70s as I rode along after being comfy in the mid-80s all morning long. I pulled off at Mammoth to refuel and gear up for the climb into Yosemite.

I had a brief moment of panic as I saw sign out of the corn of my eye about Highway 120 being closed after September 9. It must have been the eastbound route because westbound was open as was the Tioga Pass into Yosemite. (note to self: vet all roads before departing) High clouds and water in all the places meant for Yosemite to have water made for a spectacular ride through the park. I did it non-stop, but regretfully so. My little family has done some amazing day hikes and rock climbs and I was pining for those days a bit, especially riding by Bridal Veil Falls where Cindy and I once climbed up to the pool at its base and swam with our two kids who at four and five climbing like mountain goats. 

Let me bring this to a close with a review of a fantastic ride full of endless variety. I left one of the most desolate of places in the predawn hours, traveled through lowest place on the continent with its other-worldly landscapes, traveled along a highway at the base of the tallest peaks in the continental U.S., climbed into and traversed the first of our National Parks, wound my way down the other side into foothills of oak trees and open grasslands peppered here and there with a vineyard or two. At that point I fully expected to see Boss Spearman and Charley Waite (Postalwaite if you want to get formal about it) riding down the hills to round up their free grazing cattle.

Having ridden through such environmental diversity with extremes such as this will have a lasting impact on me. And tomorrow I will complete my end-to-end ride of CA Highway 41 and see the Pacific Ocean.

Keep the iron side up,

jerry

Somewhere in there is Mt. Whitney

When There is No Meet Point

Pearblossom Highway and the Big Storm Cell

When there is no meet point, you’re going solo and you’ve set your own KSU and making the departure time means little. People like to call them rides of the lone wolf as if calling it that gives it more nobility. There’s plenty of nobility in riding without over-icing the cake.

I think riding is a noble activity. Some may argue that based on negative encounters with riders and I would tell them discourteous riders have surrendered a measure of their nobility. Be inconsiderate enough on a bike you’ll become a simple hooligan on two wheels.

It’s been at least two summers since I’ve gotten in a multi-day ride so I put on my big-boy pants and planned a ride for myself to end the summer of 2017. I took off this morning missing my KSU by 18 minutes. I could blame the dog but he was already low having spent the night waiting for Cindy to get home from her nightshift and that wouldn’t be fair to poor Ollie. I was worked up enough about this that I went without my morning Kick Start but made up for it later. It was a warm morning and I was headed to Pahrump for a couple of days of writing and riding my character’s rides.

Up the Antelope Valley Freeway I went and headed right into storm clouds. I could see scattered areas of rain but lucked out pretty much and just got smatterings of rain here and there for some time. I was finally forced to don my rain gear in Littlerock as it seemed obvious that I would end up smack dap in a hefty storm cell complete with periodic lightning strikes. I took advantage of the stop and consumed my favorite rider’s breakfast, chocolate milk.

As I was sitting on the curb of the gas pump island pulling on my rain pants a woman walked by and chuckled at me on her way to her mini-van to go to work after dropping her kids at school. We traded a couple of good-natured barbs and some serious talk about needing rain - I’ll not complain about rain when we need it so much and so many people in the southeast are losing everything to it. She was the first in a pair of bookends and ended by telling me to stay safe as she buckled up. People are generally goodhearted.

The skies were fantastic as I rode east on the Pearblossom Highway and I was not disappointed in my decision to put on the rain gear. With every curve in the road I either headed directly into the path of that nasty cell or it appeared that I would skirt it while all the time smaller cells splattered my just-detailed bike. The cell moved from my right to left in a general way, southwest to northwest. When I made the junction to Highway 15 north toward Vegas the big cell pelted the desert with rain and lightning but continued to fade off to my left. The skies continued to clear to leave only high and nonthreatening clouds.

I pulled over for a multi-purpose stop in Barstow to refuel, remove the rain gear, and down a Grape flavored Kick Start. All was right in this rider’s world. After polishing off the heavenly beverage complete with electrolytes and caffeine I packed away my gear. While doing so a lady sitting in her mini-van offered me a towel saying that she had beach towels I could use to dry off. I didn’t need them as it was hot and dry enough even with the clouds that I’d dried within minutes. I thanked her anyway and she wished me a good rest of my trip. The other bookend.

My original plan was to have breakfast at The Mad Greek in Baker where I’d breakfasted often with AT&T’s radio operations guys. I scrapped that idea as I just wasn’t hungry and topped off my tank at the station next to the telephone central office where many a high desert radio project was kicked off. By this time, I was riding in triple digit temperatures and heading deeper into the Mojave.

I made a stop at the Salt Creek preserve, a little site just off CA State Highway 127 on the way to Shoshone. You wouldn’t know it from the road but there is a spring-fed gully there with vegetation and wildlife, though on this day around noon the animals all had sense enough stay low until evening leaving just a lone wolf stalking the grounds…

Pahrump is what Pahrump is – a place to buy fireworks, gamble, visit a Chicken Ranch if you’re so inclined. My purpose was to ride around town a bit and check on locations I’ve used in the book I’m now editing. Tomorrow I’ll take a ride that my character makes in the story - from Pahrump to Mount Charleston with its peak at nearly 12,000 feet. I’m watching the weather reports as there was a 40% chance of rain for the mountain in yesterday’s predictions. I don’t really like riding in the rain – I’ve lost my comfort level for it since I grew up.

When there’s no meet point, just go.

Keep the iron side up and stay cool.

jerry

Totality Run of the SSC - Prologue

At Damnation Creek Trail - I love the fallen redwood and

how it is now home to several trees and dozens of ferns and mosses.

I’ve been told that a using a prologue is for presenting material out of sequence with the rest of the story so that’s what I’m doing with this post. Probably. I intend to write one or two more posts of our summer trip to be in totality for the eclipse, hike with Gene Mauk, see my folks, and travel down the Northern California Coast. This post is about or inspired by our run down from Merlin, Oregon to Ft. Bragg and our day in Mendocino and provides a look and feel of our trip throughout.

We left Merlin behind and took the back way out to the Redwood Highway (US 199). This is the only highway to pass through the Siskiyou Mountains of southern Oregon and connects Crater Lake National Park to the Redwood National Park. Merlin is about halfway between. We twisted our way through amazing forests, through Cave Junction and by pear orchards being worked and harvested. Almost immediately after passing through Crescent City, California we entered the Redwood National Park, one of our favorite places on the planet.

We have Ollie Verdoodle with us and we were on constant watch for where he was welcome. Our first stop in the forest was at the Damnation Creek Trailhead with its posted ‘no dogs on the trail’. We complied and took some photos around the parking area before moving on. I made some observations that lead me to the conclusion that people who heed signs about dogs and waste and cautions are the very ones who are best at taking their dogs along. The people who don’t heed them are the worst. In fact, the sight that most inspired this conclusion had nothing to do with dogs. It’s people. I won’t go into detail here but would if asked in a different medium.

We came to a trail that allows dogs – or at least does not post a ‘no dogs’ sign. The Ah Pah Interpretive trail is about ¼ mile long into the forest and then back out. It was amazing to say the least. The trail is along the pathway of an old logging road that was removed to reduce erosion. The signage is an educational tour of how things were with the road, why it was removed, and how things have improved by the road's removal. It was gratifying to see how the undergrowth bounced back given the chance. I was blessed by a quote I'll hold close to my heart:

“To cherish what remains of the Earth and to foster its renewal is our only legitimate hope of survival.” – Wendell Berry

We spent the early part of today, Sunday August 27, 2017, in Mendocino, a wonderful coastal town perched on the bluffs above Mendocino Bay. The weather was clear, something of a marvel mentioned here and there by the locals as we walked along the main street and around unique shops and eateries. We hiked out to the bluffs and down near the point with great tide pools and rock formations.

Notebook in one hand, monocular in the other, I scanned the kelp beds for sea otters from time to time while waiting for a gentle wave to deposit a bestselling idea in the tide pools below. Though none was laid at my feet the whole of the scene restored my soul, if you don’t mind my borrowing words from David. A thought crossed my mind, a wonder in itself that I’m capable of such a thing. But the wonder here, I think, is the benevolence of the sea lion to allow man to place a fog horn where he likes to sun himself.

Nature revealed herself – dolphin in the bay leading a small raft of murre, gulls floating overhead, Oyster Catchers working the muscle beds, a raven enjoying a seafood lunch, a starfish clinging to the cliff just above the waterline, cormorants winging past all the while as the sea lions accented the mournful tones of the fog horn with a chorus of barks.

We took lunch at the Trillium Café, a dog friendly concern, invitingly so. We ate on a deck overlooking the garden with a lilting fountain and had a view of the bay between the main street stores. It was the best lunch in a long time, with or without our canine companion along. He was so good and the food so tasty we just had to extend it with desert.

Sunset was coming on so we ducked into Fort Bragg’s Safeway and grabbed crackers and cheese and granola/fruit/yogurt parfaits for a dinner on the clifftops to watch Sol descend into the Pacific. A perfect ending to such a day.

Our trip is drawing to a close, one day on the road with a too-short time in Pacific Grove/Monterey before running the rest of the way to SoCal. It’s been filled with many wonderful things and people, as I hope to show in the coming posts. Cindy and I remarked to each other that this will have been the longest time we’ve been away from home together. And we’ve loved it all.

Ollie and me enjoying the sunset on the bluffs of Fort Bragg

Memorial Day Rumination

I am the son of parents who met while serving in the US Navy during the Korean War. Two of my uncles served in the Navy and one of those uncles, my Uncle Bill, had two sons who served; one in the Navy and the one in the US Air Force. None of them were injured or killed while in the service. Their holiday is more rightfully Veterans’ Day.

Memorial Day is a day of remembrance for those who died while serving in the armed forces. The day was initiated in 1868 and was held on May 30th up to 1972 when the day of remembrance was moved to the last Monday in May. There will be parades, gatherings at memorials in parks and shopping malls all around, and some will visit the gravesites of the fallen where volunteers have placed American Flags at the gravesides.

I have not served our country in the armed services and I don’t know anyone personally who has given the ultimate sacrifice for freedom. I was in the last draft lottery that brought young men into the service to send them off to Viet Nam. I often say that I’m just as glad Uncle Sam didn’t invite me in for a trip to Southeast Asia. In fact, I repeated that sentiment to Eric just a few days ago when I ran into him during a walk in Crescenta Valley Park. Eric was our starting center on the ’71-’72 Glendale Community College team, the Vaqueros. Shortly after our game on the day our lottery numbers came out I remember hearing Eric’s exclamation from the front of the bus as he realized he was drafted. I was well above the top number to be called at 253.

While I make that statement from time to time it is not entirely true. My father was aboard the aircraft carrier USS Point Cruz somewhere near Korea the day I was born. Cindy and I had an opportunity because of an overly long port of call during a recent cruise to tour the USS Midway in San Diego. I was thrilled all the while I went from cabin to cabin, command centers and through the flight and hanger decks while getting just a feel for what my dad went through. We came home and I got the name of his ship from my mom to do some research on it and wrote my dad a letter about his ship, added some old photos, and talked about my experience on the Midway. In the letter I made a confession to him that until that time I hadn’t told anyone – I wish that I had enlisted in the service out of high school rather than flail about in college for the first couple of years.

Though I did not serve I nevertheless mourn the loss of young lads and lasses that I would have served with had I gone into service. I mourn those who are injured and killed in every conflict and act of terrorism. We memorialize the fallen – as a country, as communities, as families, and as individuals. We create space to remember them in some way with special to ourselves.

I lost one of my best of friends while in my twenties to a car accident with a drunk driver. I still don’t completely understand God’s reasoning for it but I’ve gotten over the bitterness of it thanks to the laying on of hands and the prayers of a very special group of junior high kids and their advisers. Since losing Doug I found myself at Bass Lake over an occasional Memorial Day weekend, a place he and I went a couple of times with his parents’ boat and skied like crazy. To memorialize my friend I’d walk down to the lake from my grandparents’ home and stroll along Ski Beach until I found someone willing to take me out for a memorial run. Ski people can be very accommodating. I’d ski the crap out that lake either until my new friends got tired of it or I wiped out in some spectacular fashion. Nowadays I have a Dr. Pepper and lift it to him in memory. You see? It’s the little ways we can remember those we’ve lost and it’s all fine and good as long as it keeps the warmth of their memories close to us without sending us into the cold of bitterness. Bitterness doesn’t do us nor anyone close to us any good. It took a small miracle for me to find that out for myself.

What does this have to do with Memorial Day 2017? Well, there are hundreds of thousands of people memorializing their fallen today, mourning their losses, and some have every right to be bitter. I pray they don’t fall to bitterness or if they have then some miracle takes place for each one and they find those that will comfort them.

All in all, remember our lost well, keep warm memories of them alive, and pray for peace.

jerry

Spring Into Action

Harbingers of Spring are everywhere. Our front yard is a riot of clover sporting bright yellow flowers, everything is green, buds are at the tip of every living branch, and the pines are losing a deluge of pollen – everything standing still outdoors has a fine yellow coating and I dared not take a Sunday afternoon nap out on the porch. The occurrence that truly sets up Spring is Daylight Savings Time and the setting of our clocks ahead one hour which took place the night before.

Cindy had just left for a night shift at the hospital and I sat at this keyboard with a view of our riotous front yard and the birdfeeder visited by increasingly colorful birds. I had, and still have, things I needed to write, things I should have been doing and so I wrote the following Facebook post thinking that would do the trick and I’d dive right in:

“Such a conundrum; the house emptied out, there's an extra hour of sunlight, and a motorcycle in the garage...and my "God Said, 'Let's Ride'" tee shirt in the drawer.”

I may have been all right had I not added the tee shirt quote but I did and I listened to it call me. Less than ten minutes and I was coursing down Freeman Avenue and off for an opportunistic ride with staying off the freeways as my only requirement. I rode up Foothill Boulevard to Big Tujunga Canyon and took it through the neighborhood of Sunland/Tujunga into the foothills and on to the Angeles Forest Highway where I opted to head on up to the Angeles Crest Highway and down into La Canada. Just under an hour later and in a little less than forty miles I had sprung into action and was returned home. Some itches need to be scratched.

As I entered Big Tujunga Canyon with the stream-bed on my left and mountainside to my right I had the evening sun still streaming into the canyon at my back setting it up so that I was riding sweep to my shadow. My shadow kept a better line through the twisties than I did and I wasn’t bothered by that in the least. Once I rounded a particular long bend in the road I lost him anyway and I was on my own again.

At one point I rode directly under a drone and thought how nice it would have been to be carrying Mississippi’s sidearm of choice from El Dorado, a holstered sawed off shotgun. I could have taken that thing out without gearing down and rode on completely at ease. Wistfully I remembered Magnum’s satisfaction when he blew Higgins’ gas powered remote control plane from the Hawaiian skies.

The roads were clear enough that I never had to slow down for a soul with a few riders and cars passing me the other way. I did pull over for a string of cars - a mix of sports and muscle cars - and then had fun staying on their six until we reached Angeles Crest Highway where we went our separate ways.

I was able to catch the sun setting through the canyons as couples embraced while sitting on the hoods of their cars parked in the viewpoints to watch it set, and photographers snapped photos as the glorious orb went to rest for the night. My helmet cam didn’t do it justice but that’s the way of the photograph, they rarely catch what the mind tells us our eyes see.

Coming down the last stretch of twisties I was able to look out over the LA Basin in early evening light to see the marine layer coming in to consume the buildings leaving islands of skyline far below me.

All in all it was a pleasant resolution to my conundrum. Spring into action my friends and when you do, keep the iron side up.

Peace

jerry

My video heading into Big Tujunga Canyon: note here that not one sport biker returned my biker's solute.