Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V
It’s about 7:00 am when I stop for gas and breakfast at Starbucks in San Bernadino. There is little traffic on Highway 10, and very little traffic on the climb through a pass between the Los Angeles and the San Bernadino mountain ranges. This will be my last big town until I hit the San Francisco Bay Area.
Munching a soggy croissant under a big umbrella outside, it’s alarming to note that it’s already getting hot. I call my parents in Morgan Hill to let them know I’ll arrive in early evening, and head north toward the gap between the Los Angeles and San Bernadino ranges. (See map.) Turning off the freeway, I pass a lake and a pair of red and yellow sport bikes pass me on Lone Pine Road to Highway 2 on the north edge of the Los Angeles Range. The few little towns I pass remind me of villages along Lake Tahoe, and I guess this is a ski area in the winter. In Big Pine I see the bikes parked outside a friendly-looking cafe with a long front porch, and I’m sorry I stopped at Starbucks.
Maybe because it’s a weekday, there’s zero traffic, and I get to test the C14 — to the best of my meager abilities — on these beautifully paved winding roads in cool air above the already-baking flats toward Mojave. The bike corners like nothing I’ve ridden — I’m trying to remember if the Guzzi Breva 750 I rode around the Adriatic Sea a few years ago was so downright sporty, but with half the power and a higher profile, I don’t think so. I keep it down in the lower gears for better control. I wish I knew these roads better and I wasn’t such a chicken about blind corners, but there you go. If I lived in this area I’d probably be out here every week.
It’s a tough decision to turn out of the mountains and go down into the desert but if I’m going to make it to the Bay Area the clock is ticking. The ride downhill is quiet and cool — the C14 is one of the quietest bikes I’ve ever ridden — and I relish the cool air blowing into the vents built into my jacket, for I’m looking at a very hot day ahead.
The blacktop levels out through graygreen scrub and cacti eeking out their meager existences in the sandy dust that passes for soil in this region. The sunlight is pale yellow, the sky a pale blue, and the air devoid of moisture. It’s a while before I notice that I’m passing houses, almost invisible, flat, rectangular stucco with low, angled roofs that blend right into the the earth.
All is crisp and calm when a few hundred yards in front of me a dog crosses the road with its puppy, almost as big as she is, in her mouth. I slow down (dogs have been a special little phobia of mine since that incident in India) anticipating its mate or other puppies following in its path.
As I approach it reaches the shoulder and drops the puppy. It’s a coyote, and the puppy is — was — a once-beautifully fat red Lab or Ridgeback — but now it’s simply fresh kill ripped violently from its chain. An ugly discovery for somebody, later.
I think of riding up to the house across the street, knocking on their door, but something about it and its disarrayed surroundings makes me decide not to so I ride on, glancing in my mirror to see the coyote hefting its breakfast back up off the ground, and loping through the scrub.
Miles of straight road and time to contemplate. 30 seconds sooner or later and I wouldn’t have come across that scene. How does that moment change life for each of us?
After Palmdale the road rockets north to Mojave where a couple of worn-down bumps of mountains struggle against the elements that want to make them as flat as the surrounding countryside. Ahead of me are more mountains, but suddenly my visor comes loose on one side, flapping in the air and banging on my helmet.
I stand in line at a Chevron station to buy duct tape. The woman behind me tells me about her Honda, and stands with me as I create a hinge with the tape — where’s the baling wire I usually bring? That would have come in handy.
It’s lunchtime and west on Highway 58 between Temecula and Bakersfield I pull off for lunch at the Historic Keene Cafe, attracted by its quiet mountain location and because there’s a bunch of bikes parked out front. I defiantly back the Kawi against the Harley’s-Only parking and go in to enjoy several cups of weak coffee and Huevos Rancheros. I meet a guy out in the parking lot riding out on a Honda Shadow. He’s got an amazing head of long white hair with a beard and moustache to match, and is probably around 70 years old. "I just bought this bike last week," he says "It’s been a long while and I’m just getting back into riding." He says the bike feels too big for him. He’s about my size, 5"7′ and fairly slight. He’s thinking about downsizing to a Rebel, which I agree is a good idea.
Then it’s just Highway 5 Highway 5 Highway 5 which is fast fast fast with the C14. I’m not even going to tell you how fast I was going but another sport bike did pass me and that is saying something.
I arrived at my parents house an hour early, which is always better than arriving an hour late even though they’ve long been used to my travels.
Next: Skyline, Alice’s Restaurant, San Francisco.
