Northwest Cycle Report

Photo by Michael Pierce.

Early morning sun streams into my tent. The air is sweet smelling, and ripe with the scents of trees and dirt. Genuine ‘Fresh Mountain Air’ surrounds me but it’s cool, not cold. I’m awakening in a campground along a river in the mountains of Northern California. The Trinity River burbles past just a few feet from my head.

Yesterday was a long day. By the time I found this campground and had my tent set up, it was well after midnight. Earlier in the dark, I’d rolled through a couple of campgrounds looking for an empty tent site. With no luck on the first two attempts, I was feeling pretty darn discouraged before I found this one. As I rode through this campground late last night, I felt guilty about the noise my motorcycle made, but I was too tired to go any further. I silently apologize to my fellow campers; “I was as quiet as possible.”

I’m up and dressed early. I pull my boots on and take a walk around the campground to stretch my legs and get a little of the crimp out of my style. Forty-five minutes later, the bike is packed and I’m geared up again. It isn’t until I’ve already hit the starter button that I realize it’s only five-thirty in the morning. No wonder nobody else is up.

I roll out of the campground and back onto the road. A ribbon of black asphalt is beckoning and my mocha craving adds to the siren’s call of the road. Weaverville is about an hour or so away. I can handle that long of a wait before I suffer from a caffeine crash.

An old high school friend runs the only Internet café between Redding and Eureka. She’s delighted to see me, and with a smile and wave gestures me over to a corner table. Moments later a gorgeous quad mocha appears at my elbow. Seemingly mere seconds pass before, with a flourish, a plate mounded with scrambled eggs, buttered toast and crisp hot hash browns joins it. As I said before, I’m not normally a morning person and I rarely eat breakfast, but this is good eats.

Mary earns a hug and a kiss on the cheek as she pushes me out the door with a smile and a promise from me to “visit her again the next time I come through town”. I wave as I pull away.

It isn’t long before I’m blasting through the corners again. The road requires my full attention as it rips and tears across ridges and plummets through valleys. Darting along I encounter random travelers. Some I pass with a wave, other I simply pass and don’t look back.

Without thinking beyond the moment, I head east at Weaverville, then turn south continuing on CA3 at Douglas City. This route brings me down to what I believe is the all time greatest motorcycle road in California.

CA36, The Best Road Ever, (in my opinion of course) runs from Red Bluff to Eureka. There’s a famous sign at the Red Bluff end that reads “Curves next 140 miles”. That alone qualifies it as great. The condition of the pavement and the lack of traffic are the icing on this asphalt cake.

I turn right and head for Eureka.

The road lives up to its reputation. I’m so stoked that I ride it end to end…twice. Once back to Eureka for the second time in the same day, I find a motel, grab a shower and stretch out on the bed. Sleep slams me between the eyes and I surrender fully.

There’s no sunlight streaming in the windows the next day. It’s raining and gray. The clock reads 8 am, but the sky is so burdened with clouds that the street lights are still on. This day would qualify for recognition as one of those ‘perfect weather for a motorcycle ride’ days.

Twelve hours later I ring the doorbell of my friend Robert’s house in Cupertino, while dripping quietly on his stoop. Robert isn’t home. This is bad.

My day has been plagued by random problems. My gear has decided to leak, leaving my crotch totally soaked. I had a flat tire, I lost my spare key and my tent poles decided to go missing somewhere between here, and there.

I sit on the step and wait. I’m doing my best unwind impression; the problem is I’m not finding myself able to actually unwind. Maybe three quad mochas in a single day are indeed ‘too many’.

It’s nearing 7 pm and Robert finally pulls into his driveway nearly hitting my parked motorcycle. That would have been just about freaking perfect.

A couple cold beers, some pizza and a shower later and I begin to feel human. I sit down on the couch and begin to spew, to vent, nay, to rant. Robert, as usual, simply listens.

After listening to my tales of woe, Robert scrounges in his garage for a few minutes and comes up with a brand new, still in the original bag, tent which he quietly hands me. My offers to pay for it are rebuked. I tell him I love him, he tells me he’s locking his bedroom door.

In the morning, I sneak a twenty dollar bill into the box of Cheerios. Two weeks later I’ll find a twenty dollar bill tucked away under the seat of my motorcycle. I do love that man. I love him in a totally manly way of course.

Morning comes and I’m off again. This time it’s not raining, though the skies remain a leaden gray. My gear has dried overnight with the exception of my gloves. My hands immediately feel the chill, so I crank the heated grips up to max power. It feels warmer to my brain - but my fingers can’t really tell. I ride on and think warm thoughts.

By late afternoon, I’m two quad mochas down the road and I’m at the southern end of CA49 the “Gold Rush Trail”. I’ve ridden to and past the ‘James Dean Death Spot’, near Cholame. I’ve had a so-so CalMex lunch in the middle of nowhere and now, no matter how hard I try to ignore my body - I’m tired.

I shouldn’t be this tired. So far today I’ve only covered about five hundred miles, but my bones are weary and my brain feels furry. I opt for an early stop and pray for a dry night, as I set my new tent up before dark in a completely vacant campground. I don’t even bother with a campfire. At about 6 pm, I roll the sleeping bag out, lay down and before I know it I’m checked out for the duration.

The sound of birds chortling wakens me while it’s still partly dark. I look out and I can barely make out the silhouette of my Kawasaki against the shadows of the darker forest. It’s very early. Early enough that I opt to lay back down and try for some more sleep.

When I wake the tent is stifling hot and I’m drenched in sweat. I look at my watch and can’t believe my eyes. It’s 2 pm. I’ve slept for nearly twenty hours with one brief interruption. I feel better. After getting up and walking around a bit I decide that I can take the rest of the day off. I’ll stay here tonight and hit the road tomorrow.

Not having to pack and unpack leaves me with little to do but hop on the bike for a ride to find some food. Two hours later I’ve had a burger and fries washed down with a fantastic chocolate milk-shake. All capped off with a decent sporting ride to and from the burger joint. I grab a book from my tank-bag and read until it’s too dark to read any more. I climb into the tent and lay down on the sleeping bag. I sleep another ‘night of the sleeping dead’.

Again, I waken to the sound of birds. This time, I get up rested and ready to ride. Late morning finds me eastbound across Sonora Pass, I return west via Carson Pass and head south via the Gold Rush Trail to take a break in Angels Camp. I have a light lunch, and cap it off with a quad mocha before I hit the road once again. This time, I head north towards the real Gold Country.

The Gold Rush Trail gets busier the further north I go. Finally, I’ve had enough traffic and people and aggravation that I give up and head east once again at Placerville. US50 is busy but it’s still one of my favorite cross Sierra routes. Rock and roll time, I sing to myself in my helmet because I can. I’m soon riding along the shores of a sparkling Lake Tahoe.

In South Lake Tahoe, I have a favorite camping spot. It’s a city run campground just across the road from the beach. There’s a great little café on the NW corner of the campground. That makes it convenient to walk to dinner, and with a full belly, walk back to camp.

Tonight, on my way back to my sparkling new tent, I’m invited to join the campfire revelries of a group of folks who are riding cross-country on Gold Wings with their wives. They’re bound from New York to San Francisco. We share a couple of bottles of wine and swap outrageous road stories. A couple hours later I stumble back to my tent and fall asleep listening to laughter.

The Sierra Mountain roads are calling to me when I awake. Packing the bike has become second nature, the new tent has found a favorite spot and the rest of my camping gear seems to be riding along quite companionably. I rumble out of the campground with a honk and a wave in the direction of my new friends loading their Gold Wings.

Breakfast along the river in Markleeville is perfect. My sunlit table is graced by the presence of a bagel and a quad mocha. Not a great mocha, but a good one. I admire how it stands there in a tall glass, loaded with caffeine and sweet dark chocolate. The bagel waits patiently on my plate, formally dressed in a layer of crème cheese over a light crisp toasting. Light breakfast foods, just the way I like them.

I ride westbound across Ebbett’s Pass. The sun is over my shoulder lighting my way through the tight and twisting single lane section. Sunlight glimmers off water caught in ditches along the roadway. Bright blue skies are skewered by tall spires and rich green trees turn the canyon to a near black against the bright granite walls.

I’m in a special place now. My mind is clearing, the pain and sorrow falling away. The natural healing is tangible and I feel rewarded. I ride with a newfound joy in my heart and soul.

Dinner comes and goes as I ride through Hollister. As my bike and I burble through the heart of town it dawns on me that I’m not one of the ‘Wild Ones’. At least, I’m ‘not too wild’ in the opinions of the kind and funny folks at the taco stand. Sated with a belly full of a fantastic Carne Asada burrito, I ride on.
The ghosts of Brando, the controversy of posed ‘bad-boy biker’ photos and long past memories of beer bottles tossed in the gutter, the infamy and ‘biker riots’ of Hollister recede into the distance behind me. More twisting roads call out to me; I answer with my right hand as I ride deep into the corners and lay my bike onto the edges of its tires.

It’s approaching midnight when I ride onto Cannery Row, that famous strip of coastal roadway on the edge of Monterey Bay, made so by the writings of John Steinbeck. The curbs are lined with colorful shining motorcycles of every description; the sidewalks are crowded with laughing motorcyclists mingling with wide eyed tourists. It’s a visual and audible circus of motorcycles and the people who love them.

This weekend is one of the big events of the year at Laguna Seca Raceway. World Super Bike is making an appearance and racing fans from all over the west have made a pilgrimage to be here. Thousands of them are here now on this spot. There are some who consider Cannery Row to be ‘hallowed motorcycle ground’. I’m not quite prepared to go that far. It certainly qualifies as a fun place though.

I find a slot to back my dirty, unkempt motorcycle into. Pulling my helmet off, I look around and I’m dumbfounded to find myself looking into my friend Matt’s face, as he shines that big loopy grin of his at me. Hugs, thumping of backs and more hugs along with a few “gee, what a strange surprise” phrases pass between the two of us. It’s good to see someone from home.

Matt invites me to hang out with him at the racetrack. He has a campsite that he’s sharing with a large group and I’m welcome to set up my tent and join them. There’s only one little problem. I don’t have a ticket for the races. Worse yet, I don’t have any extra money to spend on a ticket for the races. Matt assures me that he can bluff me through the gate and I, somewhat warily, go along just to see if he can pull it off.

We arrive at the gate shortly after leaving the cacophony of Cannery Row and Matt whips his ticket out and flashes it at the gate keeper. She waves him through and he disappears into the distance. Leaving me abandoned, sitting on the other side of the gate like a lost puppy. Figuring I have nothing to lose, I plead a ‘lost ticket’ and the wonderfully accommodating gate keeper smiles and winks as she waves me through the gate. That was way too easy. I find Matt and his cronies a few minutes later and after some campfire shenanigans, I’m lulled to a fitful sleep in my tent by the sounds of motorcycle engines, crackling fires and laughter.

The race weekend passes quickly. The highlights are: great racing, large crowds of people and thousands of photo-ops. By the time three days of moto-party have slid past, I’m feeling sunburned, crusted with dirt and I’m suffering from a severe lack of sleep.

Monday morning arrives and I’m one of the last to leave the campground area. It’s so very quiet and still, now that the rest of the crowds have gone, that I’m tempted to stay. When I ask the park ranger I’m told that isn’t an option. Matt is long gone, I decide to follow his general trail but we don’t see each other again. I’m back on the road, riding within the sweetness and solitude of motorcycle travel.