3/31/15 Eureka to Ft. Bragg

Not sure if northern California was part of the epic drought, but if so, I’ve broken it. Rain most of the night and now it’s 9 AM and the showers are sporadic. I have determined that my schedule is not so tight (yet) that I have to rush out to ride in the rain. The sidecar, while it won’t slide out and fall over like a two wheeler, will “understeer” and push into the oncoming lane on a right or over the cliff into the sea on a left if I’m not very careful. I want to learn that bit at my own pace.

First down into Ferndale, once I think, the basis for a TV show, “Ferndale Tonight” . If not, it should have been. It seems to be “Mayberry West”, a little town still existing in what we want to believe the 50’s were like. There are stores on Main Street, including a Rexall that looks just like the drug stores of my youth. I buy razor blades, if only to support the image. I stroll down Main Street to the Ferndale Pie Company for my mid-morning pie break where I choose the Apple Crumble from among several available crusted confections. I made the right call I think.

As I make my way back to the bike and start to don my helmet, a nattily dressed older couple comes up and they say , almost in unison, “Cool bike”, and the man tells me he took its picture earlier. We have to discuss the merits of sidecars for a bit and the logistics of my journey and then they walk on. Sidecar Delay Factor again.

I had intended to explore the thin gray map line leading from Ferndale back eventually to 101, but I need gas and it’s beginning to spit rain again, so I head back up to the highway for fuel. There a local fellow     ( but with a hard Chicago accent…I needed Pete Galskis for an interpreter) inquires about the machine and the trip and then relates his story of a guy he knew who got killed on a bike. He tells me to be careful and I agree that I will.

Back on 101, the speed limit is 65 and I’m maintaining a steady 60. Tara, at DMC Sidecars had told me it would take about 500 miles for the control to become “muscle memory” and stop being something I had to think about. I’d like to think I got it a little sooner, but at any rate, it seems to be working. The constant corrections still occur, but now they are just bits of pressure that happen automatically and the rig proceeds calmly down the road. I still have to watch myself on rights, as its difficult to overcome the urge to dive to the inside at the apex. Once or twice I get that sidecar wheel right up to the edge, but so far I haven’t gone over into the dirt. I’m learning that hanging off is good to lessen the amount of effort that goes into sharp turns and it is amusing since I don’t hang off near this much when leaning a two-wheel machine. (Later I will find out just how involving this can be when I find Rt. 1.)

At Pepperwood, I leave 101 to meander through one of the many Redwood State Parks that dot the landscape here in Humboldt County. No point in taking pictures. The high trees have it dark as sundown in here and I don’t have a lens (not sure anyone does) that could do any justice to how tall these things are.

A bit farther down, at Wieot, I take in the Redwood Visitors Center and see some representations of the longevity of these giants. One stump of a tree that fell in the last decade shows on its rings the founding of Oxford College in 1100, the signing of the Magna Carta, the “discovery” of America, all things in our ancient history that this tree saw as a fully mature adult. Redwoods once spread across much of North America (as far back as the Jurassic Period) but now, by mainly human intervention, they are making their last stand here in this little corner of northern California and Oregon. Behind my parking spot I see three “baby redwoods”, about 20 feet tall, planted within 10 feet of each other, but then I realize that it will be 500 years before their proximity becomes a problem.

Gabbardville appears, and with it the motorcycle shop I’d seen advertised on a billboard. I needed chain lube. But first, my nose detected the odor of something really good, and it was about lunch time, so I tracked the scent to a restaurant on the north side of town. After a delicious vegetarian quesadilla, with made-here hummus and blue corn chips, I have garlic breath that would stun a moose….but I’m traveling alone, so not to worry.

I do get the chain lube and have to go over the journey story again with the young man who sells it to me. He says he wishes his wife would let him do that. I give thanks again that mine is so supportive of my motorcycle addiction.

Lubing the chain on the rig is a bit awkward, since there’s no good way to elevate the rear wheel. It seems to require that one spray a section, roll the rig, spray some more. Not difficult, really, but it does occupy a lot of real estate to accomplish.

At Legget, 101 splits off to the east and California 1 begins. First I must stop at the Drive-Thru Tree. I’ve seen photos of these all my life and I just couldn’t resist paying my three bucks for a chance to do it myself. I am a bit surprised at how much modern cars must have grown, because the rig barely fits through the gap. I’m watching carefully that outrigger wheel, because I really don’t want to tell this as the story of how I tore the fender off. A fellow tourist volunteers to take my picture and I agree.

As I leave the Tree, California 1 starts down hill and immediately goes into some sort of asphalt spasm that has it twisted like a python with a bad burrito inside. I’m hanging off from side to side on the outfit, trying to stay ahead of the curves up and downhill at a speed that would seem quite slow on a solo. Those MotoGP stars look so good when they hoist themselves up on the pegs to smoothly move their backsides, hanging all the way over into each turn, flipping like gymnasts without upsetting the transition of the bike. Unlike them, 1) I’m not 22, and 2) I’m not coordinated or talented, and 3) my knees are as old as three of those guys put together. Five miles into the curves I have to pull over into a layby to walk around and get my nether joints working again. For 20 miles or more I’m seldom higher than second gear or over 30 mph but I’m worn out.

Suddenly, after a sweeping left hander, there is the ocean, just like in the pictures. The mountains are behind me and ahead, nothing but water and blue sky. Smiling wide in my helmet, I tell myself that this is exactly what I came here for. The curves along the bluff that forms the shoreline are still tight and it’s really difficult to “look where I want to go” because everything in my head is pulling my eyes over that cliff to the blue expanse of water and breaking waves. After a few vista points, I realize that I’ll never get anywhere if I keep pulling over for pictures. But it’s just that beautiful.

About 30 miles down that gorgeous coastline, at 5 o’clock, Ft. Bragg appears and I know I’m stopping for the night. Brenda and I came here in the early 90’s on a rented K75, as part of a trip up from Half Moon Bay and down through Napa Valley. We ate that night at the North Coast Brewery Taproom and I still pick up North Coast beers when they are available. Tonight though, I get a motel on the other side of town and can walk only up a few blocks to Mendo Bistro, a second floor restaurant on the coastal side of the street. An excellent meal of local cod, with roasted veg and soon I’m asleep back in my room.