Up at 4 again, still dark but not raining yet.  After a cold water shave in the half bath (no hot available), I sneak over to the main house for the showers before anyone else gets in.  There are no towels, just a hand towel on the sink that folks have been using when washing hands.  Well, any port in a storm.  There’s also no soap, so I wash with my shampoo, which should mean that all my body hair is now silky soft, shiny and voluminous.  TMI ?  I’m writing this by the light of the screen, sitting outside at a rusty patio table, since there is no place to sit in my room.  I’m waiting for daylight so I can hit the road.

At first light, I free the rig from its precarious perch by the gate and I’m off, keeping the ocean on my right.  Highway 1 climbs sharply out of Stinson Beach, winding tortuously up the steep slope on a narrow shelf cut into the rocks.  Much of the road is still dark, since the sun is struggling to get above the rim of the mountain but it already has illuminated the ocean a ways out from shore.  It is spectacular, this chiaroscuro view of rocks and sea, a light show that would cost a fortune to imitate with technology, but here it happens every morning.  I can’t watch as much as I’d like for the road is narrow, not much if any shoulder in many places and occasionally there is a large rock that just couldn’t cling to the heights any longer and has come down to the asphalt to rest.

The curves are, as always on this north coast, tight and endless.  As I reach the top of the mountain nearest San Francisco, there are more housing clusters, very expensive, beautiful constructions ingeniously engineered, the occupants hope, to cling to the sides overlooking the sea.  These occupants work in the big city to pay for these homes and they are in a hurry to drive their Bimmers and Volvos and exotic Italian cars down the mountain to get to the job.  The racers who ascend Pikes Peak would have serious competition from these workers if the race was back down to the bottom.  I pull over at every turnout to let them go by.

Sitting in the Dipsea Cafe near Mill Valley, having breakfast and waiting for the rush hour to die down a bit on the Golden Gate.  I remembered the intersection of 1 and 101 here when I saw it, probably because Brenda and I missed it the first time 20 years ago going north and had to “tour” Mill Valley until we could get turned around.  We had pancakes for breakfast that morning at a restaurant in Sausalito, so I’m having pancakes here today. Can’t find the other restaurant and the traffic at 8 AM is too heavy and frantic for me to explore much.  I dread the thought of going through San Fransisco, but it must be done.

The staff here at this cafe is ignoring me, probably because a travel-soiled  Aerostitch doesn’t fit in well with the obviously upscale clientele they are used to serving.  Three guys at the table behind me are talking about investors, debentures and who knows what in techno-speak lingo.  Not sure what it all means, but if they were talking to me, I’d cover my wallet.

The Dipsea is named after a trail that departs near here and goes up over the mountain to end in Stinson. There is a footrace held on the trail every year.  If it crosses the road in the morning hours, I suspect some of the competitors end up on the grille of a Volvo in an office park in the city.

Getting through San Francisco was easier than I expected. Crossing the Golden Gate bridge, the railings keep the gorgeous view occluded so that motorists don’t lose track of what they’re supposed to be doing.  Still, it’s impressive.  I know it’s just a bridge….but it isn’t.  I’ve ridden across it twice before and I still get a bit of a thrill from it.  Just over the bridge a sign points the way to Rt. One and even though it changes street names often (Veteran’s Way, Presidio Way, etc) there are green highway number signs often enough to keep on target.  It takes me up and down some of the city’s famous hills, past street names I’ve seen and heard in the movies, in novels and old TV shows.  I keep expecting a speeding Mustang to come flying over the next hill, or perhaps a berserk VW beetle with a number on the side.

After clearing the city, Highway 1 calms down and the curves become more gentle and much less frequent as the land flattens out a bit.   I pass through Half Moon Bay, the place where Brenda and I rented the K75  for that trip about 20 years ago.  It doesn’t look too familiar…but then I doubt they remember me there either.

I stopped at a State Beach south of Half Moon Bay, where two teenage boys, probably 15 or so, were playing in the surf watched over by what I assume was their mom.  The boys ran at the waves, ran from them, ran through them and all the while whooped with the sheer joy of being young, healthy and at the beach.  It’s cold and a harsh wind is driving in the breakers, but when you’re 15 or 16, none of that matters a bit.

Gas and chain lubing at Santa Cruz.  A young man on a sport bike zoomed into the lot, took off his helmet freeing an astonishing amount of hair, and said in a perfect “Valley” accent,  “Cool Bike !”   I said I agreed.

At the Beach on the way to Monterey

From Santa Cruz on down to Monterey 1 is a four lane for the most part and there is a cold biting wind blowing right at me, carrying a wet mist that isn’t rain and isn’t fog, but sort of is both.  The land here is flat and arid looking, more like desert within sight of the ocean.  Scrub bushes pop up here and there, with a lot of bare yellow earth in between.  It is, despite the arid appearance, agricultural land with the help of irrigation, and the traffic is a mix of tourist cars and large pickup trucks.

Monterey finally appears.  This place has held a magical image in my mind for years, since reading Cannery Row when I was a teenager.  Not sure why I waited this long to get here.  I took a slow tour along what passes for Cannery Row now, but even with the “development” of the canneries into tourist shops, I still can see the accuracy of Steinbeck’s description.

Along the shoreline drive at Pacific Grove

The afternoon snack is at a bakery on Lighthouse Ave in the contiguous city of Pacific Grove.  After polishing off my pastry, I drop down to the shoreline to cruise along the bay.  I see the Borg Motel, across the street from the bay with a vacancy sign and on an impulse, ask about a room.  I can have one for $72.  I take it.  This is an early stop, but from here on down I don’t think there will be much lodging and if so, it won’t be at this price.  I proceed on with my tour of the bayshore, and it takes me to the

Across the street from the Borg Motel in Pacific Grove

Scenic Seventeen Mile Drive, a private road around the Pebble Beach resort side of the peninsula.  The terminus of the Drive is by the Pebble Beach Golf Club, where the prestigious Concours motorcycle event is held each year  ( I think they play golf there some too, but who cares about that part?).  However, motorcycles are not allowed on the drive, the gate attendant tells me.  Another result of the “loud pipes save lives” brigade.

Dinner tonight at the Beach House, around the corner from my motel room.  An excellent  grilled King Salmon filet with polenta and some veggies.   The waitress even got it for me at the “early bird” price (about 1/3) even though I wasn’t there in time for that.  I guess she felt sorry for the old white-haired geezer eating alone.  I tipp

ed her on the full price, of course.

On the way back to the room, there is a full moon hanging over the bay on this cold and windy night and there are young men out there surfing in the freezing water  Ah, youth.

Another late start, cold and wet here.  Not rain, just the ocean mist.  Rt. 1 south from Ft. Bragg should be slightly familiar, but then it was over 20 years ago that I was here on a K75.  Still there is some memory for bits of the road, the scenes and the interesting houses stuck on the hillsides between the blacktop and the sea.  Not enough memory of the individual curves, however, so I’m still trying to see through the apex, hang off the appropriate side and not drop the third wheel off the edge.  So far I’ve managed to keep all of those plates in the air, but it’s never a certainty.  I do recall crossing the Russian River all those years ago and it still feels the same, like I’m visiting some special place that I’ve only read about in books.  No intrigue or noir adventures, despite the name, but the twisting road down to the crossing and back up again is exciting enough.  From there down to Jenner the curves never let up.  I remember on that long-ago trip, Brenda and I left Half Moon Bay south of San Francisco in the morning,  made it through the city, had breakfast in Sausalito, stopped at Muir Woods, had a long lunch, made various other stops to look around, and still made it to Ft. Bragg before dark.  Not gonna happen today.  I’m averaging, if my head-calculations are correct, less than 20 mph and working hard to do it.  It’s not that I want to rush, but I keep having to pull over to let others go by and I realize that if I don’t get a move on, I’ll still be in California when I need to be in Ky.

There are constant 180 degree curves, where the road dips down to the sea level in the places, everywhere along this coastline, that the sea has taken huge bites out of the land. Out in the water you can see the remainders, the crumbs so to speak, showing where the cliff used to be.  The rock towers out there in the water, 40 feet or more high, are almost always hooked, shaped like shark teeth, from the constant wind and spray.  The road always climbs back out of the dip to curve back around the next bluff, only to plunge again not far along.  Eventually the sea will have  chomped its way east to take away these roads, and humans will just keep building another to allow themselves to drive along this stunning, constantly changing view.

At Timber Cove, above Jenner, I spot the Timber Cove Inn, an interesting looking place overlooking the ocean, and stop in for lunch.  It’s not 12 yet, so they are still serving breakfast, but that’s fine with me.  Brioche French Toast, ricotta filled, with whipped cream on the side and a slice of ham will do nicely.   A young man in a  leather motorcycle-styled jacket sees my helmet on the table and asks what I’m riding.  When I tell him, he seems impressed.  In response to my similar inquiry, he tells me that he doesn’t ride.

South of Ft. Bragg on Cal. One, stopped for tree inspection

Returning to the bike, i can feel that the wind, already powerful, has picked up speed and enthusiasm.  It’s difficult just walking across the parking lot.  I’m reminded of years ago, standing on a cliff in Ireland, facing into a 40 knot wind and trying to keep my footing long enough to take a picture. This is nearly as fierce, but lacking the rain.

I had intended to go east over to Windsor, to visit the BMW dealer there for some odds and ends I needed.  I like to carry a spare clutch cable, I needed a right side mirror and I thought it would be good to get another key made, since I only had one and would be stopped for good if I lost it.  But when I called them from Bodega Bay, it seems that they didn’t have what I needed, but could order it.  That won’t help much.  So I went on south, but I didn’t want to hit San Fransisco at rush hour.  At Point Reyes I stopped to look around, bought a cappuccino and a pastry from a street vendor and looked up the prospects for motels north of the  big city.  Surprisingly, there didn’t seem to be much on offer, with only a couple of low-price chains showing up in  Mill Valley.  I’ll just press on until I find something.

At Stinson Beach, I was close enough to the city and I was tired enough to stop.  I learned the hard way

The view out the rear window of the Timber Cove Inn

long ago what happens if I don’t listen to that inner voice that says it’s time to get off the bike.  This tiny beach town has just three lodging places and two of them are full.  I get to the third, a B&B, just as a couple in their 30’s, driving an expensive car, get the next to last room.  I take the last one.  It is a strange looking place, hard to describe, but I think,”I’ve stayed in worse”…and I have, but not by much.

There are chickens in the “courtyard” in front of the house, though it is hard to spot them amid the clutter.  My rig is parked in front of the gate, out on the street.  I can’t really tell what the house actually looks like because of the objects, small and large, everywhere.  There are signs allegedly from the Titanic, various bits of what I assume are sculptures, though I can’t tell what most of them might be, random pieces of inside and outside furniture, carved tiki gods and plants all over the place.  Cats roam among the detritus.  There is a fence around the house, but it is so covered in the decorative junk that I can’t get my eyes to focus on any one piece to tell what its contours might be. There is an iron staircase to nowhere.  The proprietor is a muumuu clad lady of indeterminate age, probably older than me, and my guess is that in her day she would have been what back then was called a hippie

and the curves go on and on and on…..

here in the birthplace of that movement, before the term came to mean deadbeat. She seems distracted.  Breakfast, she tells me is at 8:30 and when I say that I’ll be long gone by then, she gives me a discount on the room without my asking.  Still, it’s the most expensive lodging of the trip so far, even down to $60.  My room is not in the house, but in an “annex” across a  wavy cobbled brick patio, with a half bath across the hall, which is open to the outside.  There is a curtain across the space under the half-bath’s sink and when I look in, I find several broken toilet seats stored , presumably, for some future use. The room is small, obviously added on at some point from an outside area and there is a support column in the middle.  The decor is “Middle Hoarder Period” with so many things piled on every surface that I really can’t tell what I’m looking at.  I do the mandatory bedbug check and find no evidence, which suggests that even they won’t live here.   I devise a way of hanging my clothes from an abandoned TV rack jutting out from the wall, so they won’t touch the floor

Part of the courtyard at the B&B. Note the iron staircase on the left that goes to nothing.

and whatever else is projecting.   I keep the bags tightly closed.

A short walk outside brings me to the three restaurants in town, one of which is closed for the evening.  On the porch of the first, a lady about my age is sitting, enjoying the sun she says, not here for the food, and next to her is a large dog tied to the rail (with a water bowl handy).  He is of generously mixed ancestry, but she tells me he isn’t hers, that he belongs to one of the patrons inside, so I don’t try to pet him.  She can’t recommend one restaurant over another, but then informs me that the live music is about to start in this one, so I go to the other.  The Parkside Cafe turns out to be a good choice, since the menu is eclectic, the draft beer selection small but thoughtful, and it’s quiet.  I select a vegetarian combo with roasted this and that and subtle spices that I can’t definitely identify, but certainly enjoy.  It is all washed down with a local oatmeal stout, which won’t knock Guinness off its perch, but was well worth a try.  I walk back to the room and go to bed, even though it’s only 8, because there’s nothing else I can do.

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.