04/01/15 – Ft. Bragg to Stinson Beach

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.