On November 7th, I left Santa Cruz on my motorcycle for a trip to the tip end of the Baja peninsula. I’d planned to roll out at 10, but it was 11 by the time I got the bike packed, repacked, and everything strapped down to my satisfaction. The Kawasaki KLR650 is a tall, dual-sport bike, and with the weight of the luggage, it rides like I’m hauling a passenger. That’s okay, but I haven’t loaded the bike for camping in a few years, and I forgot how heavy and awkward it can feel at first.
Pre-coffee packing. Followed by repacking. And repacking again. What did I forget?
Not so many years ago, I lived part-time on a beach south of Mulege, and would sometimes ride it between my US and MX homes. I got used to it. It wasn’t scary, dangerous, or otherwise ominous, “even” for a solo female, despite the constant looks of horror and warnings I get constantly from friends and acquaintances in the US. At home in Baja, I rode my Austrian-made KTM 450 EXC dual-sport, which was a lot more fun and a lot more practical off-road, but it doesn’t have the speed or the tires, or the luggage capacity for this kind of trip. The Kawasaki KLR650 is also considered a dual-sport motorcycle, but it’s a pack mule, and handles freeways and dirt roads with ease. However, it’s tall and difficult to handle in deep sand and water crossings, but manageable, most of the time. It has experienced its share of dunks and sand baths, but gets right back up and goes, every time.
To Highway 1 from Santa Cruz. BTW, I love this LS2 Carbon Explorer helmet. It’s super lightweight with lots of airflow and integrated sunshade, and the (easily removable) bill keeps the sun from blinding me.
Happily, I didn’t set out alone, as my friend Bruce rode out behind me for lunch in Salinas before parting ways. After we set off, he followed me for the 10 minutes to the Shell station just before the Highway 1 entrance to confirm that the straps were tight and that the blinkers and brake lights were visible. I’d put new LED blinker strips down the sides of the back fender to supplement the weak little bulbs that come stock on the bike and they’re quite a lot more noticeable, especially with my Giant Loop Great Basin Bag hanging over the sides of the rear fender.
It’s always fun to see a motorcycle packed for adventure. The main piece of luggage is an upside-down U-shaped soft bag—the Giant Loop Great Basin Saddlebag—that wraps around the rear seat and hangs down on each side. It’s incredibly versatile, designed to strap onto any bike, and I’ve used it on a Moto Guzzi cruiser, a couple of BMWs, and my big sport bike, the KTM 950 Supermoto. Behind the Giant Loop sit two long, narrow bags that hold my camping gear; one is a bright orange compression bag. I also found a set of small front panniers on Temu that hang over the sides of the gas tank. I didn’t expect them to be high quality, but they’re excellent.
Some of the toolkit, buried in a “leg” of the Giant Loop Great Basin. If you’re a tool person you’ll note the gap on that socket rack. I finally found the missing 17mm in a basketful of loose metric and standard sockets at the Gray Bears Thrift Shop in Capitola.
My small top tank bag is a Giant Loop Diablo model that I got from the founder, Harold Olaf Cecil, over a decade ago for a press review, maybe for Women Riders Now magazine. It’s been through hell and back, with miles and miles on all the bikes I’ve ridden in California and Baja, and despite being dunked in a couple of water crossings and suffering the harsh conditions of Anza-Borrego and Baja, it still looks brand new.
Okay! Setting off, a little shaky, I have to remember that I always feel this way before a big trip. Did I remember everything? Did I bring too much? Are all systems go? A tiny hint of nerves twists in my gut, but I insist to myself that it’s excitement and not fear—and give feeling to that space so it won’t unravel me before I even reach the border.
An hour down the road in quaint, old town Salinas, Bruce and I find a diner with outdoor seating and split a Reuben sandwich on marbled rye, juicy with corned beef, sauerkraut, and Russian dressing.
Thanks for the sendoff party, Bruce!
We’ve parked on the sidewalk next to the diner, and my bike smells like gas. Uh oh. Petcock? Carb? Definitely the carb. Not great news, but not surprising. I should have had it rebuilt, but honestly, it was just fine two weeks ago, when I had everything checked out! During lunch, I make a few quick calls to shops I knew when I lived in the San Diego area. GP Motorcycles did great work on my Moto Guzzi and KTM, but they’re a strictly European shop. They suggest an independent shop, Clairemont Cycle Supply, who agrees to order a carb rebuild kit and fix it when I get there. Yay!
Relief—for now. As I hang up, though, I feel a twinge of doubt. This was the last thing I wanted to find on day one, like the trip itself is testing me right out of the gate. My hope is that this will be a minor hurdle, not an omen of what’s to come. I’ve been there, done that, and I don’t want to do it again. Not this time.
South on 101, the sun shines hot through my jacket, keeping me warm despite the cool Pacific breeze. Miles and miles of migrant workers stoop to pick the November crops: red and green lettuce, spinach, kale, and broccoli. Rows and rows of light and dark green stripes flash by, the monotony broken by clusters of humongous, four-legged machinery looming over the scene as if guarding the fields and the workers. It is vast, yet only a glimpse of the 1.4 million acres of Monterey County agriculture—the “salad basket of the world.”
As I watch this scene roll by, warm and isolated in my motorcycle helmet, nothing else to think about right now, I try to imagine a life filled with this hard work—the endless repetition, the smell of dirt and vegetables mixed with pesticides and diesel fuel. I think of myself in the grocery store, thoughtlessly choosing among the piles of shining leaves. It’s humbling to realize how much labor it takes to make even the simplest meal possible. I vow to be more conscious in the future, but I know I’ll forget once I’m home again, going about my routines, surrounded by glossy produce displays, oblivious to the hands that picked each leaf. We take so much for granted—not only the crops and the workers, but the water, the fuel, the machinery, the trains, and the trucks, the entire system that keeps it all running. If we stopped to consider everything, our days would be filled with nothing but thoughts. So we consume mindlessly, without real appreciation, until confronted with the physical evidence of it.
Farmworkers only earn an average of $11,000 a year for their risky, backbreaking work and long hours. More stats and info at this article.
The sun continues to keep me warm as I merge onto 101 from Highway 1, and still it is not a freeway, but a highway with intersections where trucks, tractors, and big rigs wait to cross. I speed up to join a pack of traffic so I’m not solo, to keep myself safe from distracted or aggressive drivers who may not see my single headlight.
The driver of a sedan begins a leftward turn across Highway 101 at Potter Road, while a commercial truck waits to do the same. See the article on safety concerns on this stretch of 101.
A white school bus marked with the name and logo of an agricultural company waits patiently at one dusty intersection, filled with the brown faces of immigrants from Mexico and South and Central America—only the present generation of folks who have worked in these fields for over a century. These immigrants are invisible to most of us, yet vital to our economy. Passing them reminds me of the unseen people, the invisible network that keeps this country running—and of my own freedom, riding by with no plan but my own.
A bus to transport field workers sits empty near a cauliflower field in Salinas. The H-2A visa program for temporary farm workers has provisions to ensure workers coming from abroad are paid for their travel. Reforming the H-2A visa program is one of the several changes included in the Farm Workforce Modernization Act. See the article and more images here.
And now, Paso Robles—a popular spot for Silicon Valley tech retirees—is a monoculture of vineyards, becoming a version of Napa and Sonoma and the Valle de Guadalupe in Baja, where I am headed. It’s a beautiful place, but I mourn the loss of the fruit and nut orchards that used to make this a rich, diverse culture, with all the natural benefits of breaking it up with a variety of other trees, such as erosion reduction and habitat for native birds, pollinators, and insects that help control pests. Couldn’t they have kept just some of them?
Photo courtesy Paso Robles Visitor Center.
Just beyond, the oil rigs pump black gold from the Nipomo Mesa, reminding me that the US pumps more oil than any country in history despite the arguments about it in the election, which was resolved only yesterday.
And now up, up, up the mountain and down, down, down past San Luis Obispo, the sun losing its warmth. I stop at a ranch to layer up with a sweater, quilted lining, and a windbreaker under my motorcycle jacket. While layering up, a couple hauling a huge trailer pulled in, switched drivers, and left. A few minutes later I caught up with them. They were going 70mph, even uphill. Definitely the cruise control was on. Not a great strategy to save gas. My dad taught me to use gravity on the down side to accelerate and take it easy on the up side.
Snowbirds in a “ive-in trailer on their way to SoCal or maybe Baja. See article.
Stopping for gas 170 miles into the tank, I put in 4.8 gallons. Yeah wow, I ought to be getting at least 50 mpg and 250 miles on the 6-gallon tank, so indeed, my carb is not leaking a little, but a lot. As I twist the gas cap back on, I feel a knot of worry tighten in my stomach and my mind loops on the problem. It’s a carb rebuild. Cheap. No way it could be a leaky head gasket or a piston issue, right? No. No. No. It can’t be that. I saw the leak in the carb. Still, dollar signs are piling up in my head until I remember my grandmother’s saying, “Don’t borrow trouble.” So I put it out of my mind for now.
With about 50 more miles to Santa Barbara and 250 miles to San Diego, it should hold up fine. Uh huh, it should all be fine. Yes, it will be fine.
The KLR is an old reliable bike and my 2007 model only has about 22,000 miles on it, half of those racked up on trips between California and Baja. There are thousands of these bikes, even much older and with more miles than mine, in cities and riding RTW, affectionately dubbed “The Swiss Army Knife of Motorcycles.”
Having forgotten that daylight savings time ended a couple of days ago, I mistimed my departure and hit Santa Barbara at 5:15 pm. Shockingly, it’s almost dark. Traffic stops, and though most drivers make room for me to split lanes, others are distracted, and the vigilance it takes to constantly stop and start and weave through traffic safely on the white dashed line between the fast lane and the middle (now running at 5-10 mph) is exhausting.
Lane splitting, lane sharing, traffic filtering. Whatever you call it, they do it all over the world, except for in 49 states in the USA. Thanks, California drivers! Photo and detailed article courtesy Twisted Throttle.
I ride only 15-30 mph through the mostly-stopped traffic, two fingers on the clutch lever, two fingers on the brake,. Google Maps tells me I’ll reach my friend’s place at 6:00 pm but, because of the lane-splitting (thank you, Santa Barbara commuters!), I beat the clock and turn off onto a beautiful, wooded byway that follows the curve of a canyon I cannot see exactly when deer crossings are most likely. I ride slowly, letting a car turn onto the road ahead of me to run interference. Finally, I arrive, teetering, vibrating, icy cold, and there’s Yvette’s husband, Mark, opening the gate so I can park, freshen up, and meet Yvette for dinner in town.
Off the bike, I shiver. My body makes me very aware that it vehemently objected to today’s ride. My fingers are stiff, my legs weak, and my neck is sore. Okay, it couldn’t be helped today, but I will not ride so long, so hard, and not in traffic after I hit the border. I promise myself I will take more breaks. My next rides are to San Diego, 4 or 5 hours south depending on the traffic conditions through LA, and then to the border at Tecate, then the Valle de Guadalupe, and then the west coast through Ensenada to San Quintin to Bahia de Los Angeles, or the east coast to San Filipe to Bahia de Los Angeles. I haven’t decided yet. But either way, they should be enjoyable and manageable journeys in slow, 4-6 hour rides broken up with a night or two exploring off the bike.
Zipping off my armored overpants (Olympia Moto Sports) and shedding my jacket (REVIT! Sand) and boots (Forma), I’m ready. Mark drives us to town, thick with traffic like he’s never seen, he says, due to the Jewish Film Festival, Itzhak Perlman and Friends at the Granada (where Yvette works), and the general First Thursday melee. Creeping city traffic, with its lattice-work of one-way streets, tries our patience. We attempt two parking lots before parking on the roof floor of the library parking structure.
Downtown Santa Barbara always exceeds expectations with its architecture, art, and gardens. Artistic lighting creates drama everywhere, casting light and shadow on the stark white Mission-style buildings, the clock tower, the spires, the bell tower, and the myriad archways inviting you into pockets of shops and restaurants, fountains and benches.
How did this unified architecture come to be? Yvette tells me that after a major earthquake in 1925, one Miss Pearl Chase (1888-1979), a very wealthy lady, offered funds to rebuild the city (and Montecito) as part of The American Riviera, in the Spanish Mediterranean style.
I don’t remember if I met my friend Yvette Keller via the Santa Barbara Writers Conference or the Virtual Travel Writing Group I formed in March 2020. A longtime fan of Douglas Adams, Yvette pens 42 Places, a fandom blog, and authored Douglas Adams’ London (a themed walking tour of London). Her husband, Mark is an Apple computer tech genius who works for a cybersecurity firm, and their giant Moluccans cockatoo, Jeremy, can say his name and cluck like a chicken, among other talents.
Jeremy the Cocatoo.
Yvette is not only a writer, but a book narrator and one of those accomplished, artsy, and crafty people with projects strewn around artistically everywhere. On of her artist friends painted a giant California on the wooden fence their grassy inner courtyard where Jeremy perches on sunny days. We take a driving tour of the hills above the city, and after dinner at an Indian restaurant and two cold Coronas, I collapse into a cozy guest room lined floor-to-ceiling with books. What better respite after a long road trip?
November 8, 2024
Today, after a quick jog down the Mesa Steps to watch sunset and stroll the beach, I am back on the road, heading south on 101 to the Mission Bay area of San Diego.
The ocean at the Mesa Steps in Santa Barbara, north of town.
Saturday traffic isn’t so bad, and it’s all freeway to San Diego, with only a couple of slow spots and other motorcyclists to group up with for lane splitting. I can’t keep up with some of them, sport bike riders flying through on the dotted white line so fast I hoped I wouldn’t find disaster ahead. Finally, a rider on a HD Electra Glide booms, with music and a pillion passenger and, for a change, I appreciate the loud pipes to part the way ahead of us. Most of the fast lane drivers are attentive, hugging the left part of the lane to clear space. Some are distracted, taking advantage of the stop and go traffic to text, eat, put on makeup, shave, and I even saw one guy reading on his Kindle. I’m also always on the lookout for drivers who quickly dash between lanes without signaling, thinking that they’ll get just that 10 more seconds ahead.
I think back to living in Europe, in Baja, and visits to Asia and Africa, and how all the drivers make room for scooters and motorcycles, and how much safer and easier and just plain friendlier it is to ride there. With gas prices high and roads narrow, everybody’s friends ride, everybody’s kid and grandma rides. (I started riding at age 14.) All over the world, motorcycling is part of the culture and not a subculture as it is here in the US.
And, I arrive San Diego to visit my friend, writer Elaine Masters and her husband Dave, who used to own a fish market in town. About 7 or 8 years ago, when I lived in this area, Elaine introduced me to her Tijuana dentist. I had some fairly major work done for a fraction of the cost of a dentist in the US and it was a great experience. The office is on the ground floor of a 4-star hotel in a wealthy area of Tijuana, and there’s a Starbucks on the next block, and a mall down the street with all the stores we have in malls here in the US, including an Apple store.
A few years ago we visited the dentist together, making it part of a three day food and wine tour of the Valle de Guadalupe, and I finally got to eat at Deckman’s, a famous farm-to-table restaurant that seemed to always be closed when I came through the Valle. (Another top spot is Finca Altozano.) So we enjoyed food and wine first, then, the dentist. (See Elaine’s article about La Villa de la Valle, which we also visited on that trip.)
Elaine and Dave are are just returning from a scuba diving trip on the islands surrounding Tahiti. Tomorrow, I’ll visit Allan Karl, a fellow motorcycle traveler and writer, author of a beautiful coffee table travelog, Forks: A Quest for Cuisine, Culture, and Connection. I look forward to catching up on his latest trip as he’s just back from riding his BMW 650 around Spain.
Allan is an awesome writer, rider, and food and wine writer, too.
Then the carb gets rebuilt, and I head to Baja, with its endless stretches of wild beauty from the central ridge of the looming Sierra de la Giganta that lies between the waters of the Pacific and the Gulf of California. I know the northern part of the peninsula fairly well, but it’s been a few years. I’m most excited to explore Southern Baja and the Sierra de la Laguna of La Paz and Los Cabos municipality, which is all new to me. Looking ahead, it feels thrilling and humbling, and also provides a necessary head-clearing to mentally outline the next steps in my life’s journey. A new phase, I think, is in order.
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