Wednesday, August 18, Monument Valley
Woke to an incredible sunrise. I can't stop taking pictures.
Buffet breakfast at The View restaurant offered good food and more than delivered on the view.
Then I decided to hike the Wildcat Trail. Just 3.2 miles, it goes down to the valley floor and in between the two “mittens.” Like any great adventure it had a touch of fear, a moment of despair and a comforting redemption.
It is a fairly steep decent to the valley floor. Once down, the trail crosses gullies and follows washes around these giant and magnificent rock formations.
I felt relaxed and calm and took my time. But on the backside of the mittens are some Indian homes. Far off, I thought rather far off. Still one of the Indian's dogs did not think it far enough. He suddenly and menacingly popped up out of a gully and ran my ass off the trail. I kept backing away from him, talking calmly, all the while looking around my feet for a stick. I found a short one and grabbed it. The dog kept his distance but kept barking. A ways further I found a bigger stick, one that gave me a fighting chance if it came to that.
Now I walked more confidently, the dog seemed to lose confidence or maybe I was reaching the edge of his protective boundary. In any case after some tense moments he stood on a hill and watched me disappear over the next.
Once my heart stopped thumping, I reacquired the trail and settled back down into my pace. I kept the stick for a while, just in case.
Now my attention turned to the clouds, which were darkening rapidly. Wind was gusting through the gullies. I started looking for places to climb in case of flash floods. Unfortunately, I was now on the valley floor and high spots were sparse.
Still I figured my biggest danger was getting wet, until I saw my first lightning bolt, that is.
I picked up the pace a bit and felt a lot better when I rounded the mitten and could see my tent, way off, and way up, but I knew exactly where I stood.
These big horizons here in the West offer the opportunity of watching a storm descend upon you. (Back east, it just rains. There are too many trees or hills to see it coming.) I looked to the lightning, then to my camp, and figured that both were fairly far away, but the storm looked farther. Unfortunately, the ever bigger wind gusts had me wondering if that storm wasn't traveling a whole lot faster than I was.
Picking up the pace any more was not an option, because I was on the final part of the trail and it is all up.
Rain drops, not many, began falling on me as I hiked the final tenth mile. I ducked under my rain fly content that I had made it. Then the wind really kicked up, coming it seemed from all directions. I hunkered down in my tent to wait out the storm. It was more wind and bang than rain. I weathered it just fine.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
California Day Six
California: Day Six
Monday, February 22, 2010
Today the sun shone again in Los Angeles. While I have not been lucky with temperature, I have been mostly lucky with rain, the bulk of it falling while I slept. With today's sun came that additional 10 degrees I had been missing since Day One. As the guy at Eagle Rider (the motorcycle rental company) said when I complained about the cold, well it is February. This is our winter. I mentioned Venice Beach and he said, “Yeah, the babes all wear sweatshirts and hoodies; that's their winter coat.”
My last vacation day was a soft day. I walked up to the Denny's and posted the February 14 Polar Bear blog. I got a delicious meal at a cost approximately one-tenth of the breakfast options here at the hotel.
I figured to turn the bike in by 4 p.m. This evening my work starts with a 6 pm screening and meeting and another 7 pm meeting. Film distributors will pitch their movies.
I also wanted to change my hotel room. So despite getting raked over the coals to be here at the same hotel as the convention, which included twenty-five bucks for overnight parking for the bike, I still had to pack my bags yet again, if only to ride the elevator down and back up again.
With my leisurely breakfast and then switching rooms, I figured to check out the L.A. Zoo and get a photo of the Hollywood sign.
My route there was 90 percent freeway. So I also figured to leave and return before rush hour. It is Monday.
Traffic was moderately heavy all the same. These freeways twist and merge with dual lane entrances and exits. Each of these big merges leads to a slowdown. They do severe rubber banding here, speeds from 65 mph to 0 with very little warning.
Is lane sharing an awesome concept or what? I finally got my chance. Cars actually move over to let you through. When traffic slowed, or stopped or crawled, I slid the bike from one lane to the next, hopscotching my way along through the much slower lines of cars. Too bad we don't have the tradition back east. Somehow I think our drivers are just too nasty to let it work.
Unfortunately, California is also populated with distracted drivers. It seems the great majority are on cell phones all the time. They drive with their windshields and rear view mirrors. I don't recall seeing a single driver swivel his head to check blind spots.
Even so I had great fun on the freeways.
The L.A. Zoo was fair at best. But they had meerkats and it was fascinating to see the interest people take in these active little animals. The exhibit had one high rock. That generated never ending activity as the meerkats took turns keeping lookout up on the high rock. They stood on their hind legs in that cute way they do. Sometimes three were up, sometimes only one. What was cool was that every few minutes they would switch positions. They were the most active animals I saw in the whole zoo.
Most of the rest of the animals were just laying in a corner somewhere, or in the case of the single hippo and single rhino, just standing stock still.
It was warm enough in the sun as I walked around the zoo that I actually sprang for a snow cone.
Exiting the zoo I worked my way around to the other side of Griffin Park to ride up the hill to the observatory. And there, up on top, facing away from the observatory was the famous Hollywood sign. I took a few photos, but in the camera lens it is much farther away than in person.
More freeway fun and I was at Eagle Rider at 4 pm, right on time. They checked-in the bike and gave me a ride to the hotel.
Left for next year is the southern end of the PCH and maybe the Hollywood walk of fame and Rodeo Drive, although they are not so much my thing. Across from the zoo is the Will Rogers museum of western history. That I would like to see. It is closed on Mondays. San Diego will have to wait.
If I am back at the IMAX convention next February, I may need to give it another try. I would especially like to ride that upper PCH along the cliffs through Big Sur with another 10 degrees of warmth. But it is winter in California. You have to stay out of the mountains. After we got rain last night, they had snow up in Big Bear, just a short ride to the east of here.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Today the sun shone again in Los Angeles. While I have not been lucky with temperature, I have been mostly lucky with rain, the bulk of it falling while I slept. With today's sun came that additional 10 degrees I had been missing since Day One. As the guy at Eagle Rider (the motorcycle rental company) said when I complained about the cold, well it is February. This is our winter. I mentioned Venice Beach and he said, “Yeah, the babes all wear sweatshirts and hoodies; that's their winter coat.”
My last vacation day was a soft day. I walked up to the Denny's and posted the February 14 Polar Bear blog. I got a delicious meal at a cost approximately one-tenth of the breakfast options here at the hotel.
I figured to turn the bike in by 4 p.m. This evening my work starts with a 6 pm screening and meeting and another 7 pm meeting. Film distributors will pitch their movies.
I also wanted to change my hotel room. So despite getting raked over the coals to be here at the same hotel as the convention, which included twenty-five bucks for overnight parking for the bike, I still had to pack my bags yet again, if only to ride the elevator down and back up again.
With my leisurely breakfast and then switching rooms, I figured to check out the L.A. Zoo and get a photo of the Hollywood sign.
My route there was 90 percent freeway. So I also figured to leave and return before rush hour. It is Monday.
Traffic was moderately heavy all the same. These freeways twist and merge with dual lane entrances and exits. Each of these big merges leads to a slowdown. They do severe rubber banding here, speeds from 65 mph to 0 with very little warning.
Is lane sharing an awesome concept or what? I finally got my chance. Cars actually move over to let you through. When traffic slowed, or stopped or crawled, I slid the bike from one lane to the next, hopscotching my way along through the much slower lines of cars. Too bad we don't have the tradition back east. Somehow I think our drivers are just too nasty to let it work.
Unfortunately, California is also populated with distracted drivers. It seems the great majority are on cell phones all the time. They drive with their windshields and rear view mirrors. I don't recall seeing a single driver swivel his head to check blind spots.
Even so I had great fun on the freeways.
The L.A. Zoo was fair at best. But they had meerkats and it was fascinating to see the interest people take in these active little animals. The exhibit had one high rock. That generated never ending activity as the meerkats took turns keeping lookout up on the high rock. They stood on their hind legs in that cute way they do. Sometimes three were up, sometimes only one. What was cool was that every few minutes they would switch positions. They were the most active animals I saw in the whole zoo.
Most of the rest of the animals were just laying in a corner somewhere, or in the case of the single hippo and single rhino, just standing stock still.
It was warm enough in the sun as I walked around the zoo that I actually sprang for a snow cone.
Exiting the zoo I worked my way around to the other side of Griffin Park to ride up the hill to the observatory. And there, up on top, facing away from the observatory was the famous Hollywood sign. I took a few photos, but in the camera lens it is much farther away than in person.
More freeway fun and I was at Eagle Rider at 4 pm, right on time. They checked-in the bike and gave me a ride to the hotel.
Left for next year is the southern end of the PCH and maybe the Hollywood walk of fame and Rodeo Drive, although they are not so much my thing. Across from the zoo is the Will Rogers museum of western history. That I would like to see. It is closed on Mondays. San Diego will have to wait.
If I am back at the IMAX convention next February, I may need to give it another try. I would especially like to ride that upper PCH along the cliffs through Big Sur with another 10 degrees of warmth. But it is winter in California. You have to stay out of the mountains. After we got rain last night, they had snow up in Big Bear, just a short ride to the east of here.
California, Day Five
California Day Five
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Sightseeing eats time and cuts miles. Who cares?
Not obeying my own mantra, “Fear of rain is most always worse than rain itself,” last night I determined to see if I could come in a day early at the Airport Marriott, where my IMAX convention starts in two days.
I called in the morning. The rate was $199, my convention rate of $99 was not yet available. I played my government rate card and they came down to $110. So here I am, sitting in the Marriott restaurant, typing in today's ride remembrances.
My artisan hotel in Santa Barbara served no breakfast. No breakfast places were to be found close by. So I determined to hit the road and find something en route to L.A. I was hoping for a Denny's or something.
Nothing appeared for quite some time. I was really wanting that first cup of morning coffee, for nothing else than to burn out the leftover cigar taste in my mouth from the night before. Since my destination was now L.A., a reasonable two hour ride, I stuck with Route 1 the famous PCH, headed back in the direction I came a couple days earlier.
Suddenly a little sandwich board flashed past along the side of the road. Seaside Cafe, breakfast, lunch and dinner was advertised. I made a “uey” and dropped down a very steep switchback drive to the beach. It was one of the parks common to the California coast. Nothing more than the beach, parking lot, a few painted lines for RV parking, a pod for hookups, picnic table and fire ring. The campsites on the beach here are on the beach.
Opposite the campsites was a small building with restaurant and camp store serving meals and selling firewood and sundries. In front was one, very long, picnic table. A couple of surfers were standing around, tops of their wetsuits turned down exposing their chests and tattoos. I overheard they are here for the winter, down from Alaska to enjoy the warmth and waves. A lady was there too, sipping coffee.
A hand-written menu board offered breakfast burritos with bacon or “tri-tip,” six dollars.
I stood by the window for a very long time. I could hear someone was inside. The grill was sizzling. Glorious smells of grilling onions and meats wafted out of the window and mixed with the fresh, salty, beach air. Someone is in there. I hear grill noises, chopping, clanging metal spatula. Eventually the grill noises stopped. I figured maybe someone would take my order now. I waited, and waited longer and longer still.
Finally a very attractive, middle-aged lady, tall, with long blonde hair pulled back tight and sun weathered face appeared with a big smile and four breakfast burritos wrapped in shiny foil. She wore a bikini top over extra ample breasts with an apron layered on top. A set of turquoise beads started around her neck and disappeared into her cleavage. Hippy or surfer? I couldn't decide.
She seemed surprised to see me. But before I could explain, the lady sipping coffee walked up. “I'm sorry,” the cook lady said to me, “I'll take your order in just a moment.” To the coffee sipping lady she said, “Two breakfast burritos with tri-tip, and two with bacon.”
But the coffee lady had ordered only one with bacon. She asked if anyone wanted the extra with bacon. I hesitated. But the surfers were uninterested, so I said yes, in fact, that was exactly what I meant to order. (I had no idea what “tri-tip” was.)
The coffee lady paid in full for four burritos, then handed me the extra one with bacon. I held out my six dollars. But the coffee lady would not take it. I protested. She refused. “Give it to her instead as a tip,” the coffee lady said nodding her head toward the cook lady. So I did.
The cook lady was baffled too. “Well thank you,” she said to the coffee lady. The coffee lady said to forget it. “Let me give you something extra,” the cook lady offered. “It's okay. I know you,” the coffee lady said, adding that she was a regular and would be back and appreciated the cook lady and her cooking. “Then may I have your name?” the cook lady asked, preparing to write it down, I presume to later render some kindness or bonus to compensate on a future order. “None of that,” the coffee lady admonished, then walked off with her three burritos.
I stood there unsure of proper protocol for such a situation.
“Oh, now I have to make coffee and make breakfast for these boys, they've been very patient. Do you like strong coffee or weak coffee?” the cook lady asked me. “Any coffee,” I answered. “The coffee is 45 minutes old. I have to make new coffee. I will give you the old coffee for free in thanks for the extra money for the burrito. If you don't like the coffee, I will give you fresh coffee as soon as I make it, but first these boys have been so patient.”
She was California spacey and sweet and handed me a cup of steaming coffee. I'm guessing the permanent looking trailer next to the cement block cafe is hers. Guess she was attracted to the beach and found a way to stay.
I assured her I was fine, took the coffee from her with thanks and sat down to eat my very tasty, and large, and filling, breakfast burrito and drink the hot coffee. The coffee was fine. No waiting required. By fortune's smile I had jumped to the head of the line.
Looking to the surfers to see if they were upset, they were blissfully ignorant of the entire exchange.
“We may have missed our window of opportunity,” the one surfer said to the other. For a moment I thought they were thinking of me and my karma-produced, no-wait burrito. But it turned out they were assessing the wave action.
Eventually the surfers got their burritos. The were waiting for tri-trip after all. I will have to Google that. Never heard of the stuff. It sounds like a chemical.
I munched away, watching the waves and people.
My breakfast burrito was an entire Denny's “Grand Slam,” rolled into a tortilla. There were eggs, bacon, home fries, salsa, onions, all in an easy-to-hold form. No forks required. It was hot and delicious.
Another couple appeared and called into the window, rather loudly. I hadn't thought of that tactic. They were told the grill was out of breakfast. They ordered burgers and fries instead. The cook lady disappeared again.
She reappeared mid-preparation to sell a couple bundles of firewood to another camper.
Finally the surfer boys from Alaska got their breakfast. The other couple sat and waited for lunch.
A surfing couple emerged from the waves and walked up to an open public shower in front of me. They were muscular, both of them. Young and beautiful. He stripped off his wet suit first, down to nothing and then pulled on a pair of board shorts with nary a moment of modesty.
Unfortunately she wasn't so bold. He held a beach towel around her as she transitioned from wet suit to bikini. They washed the salt off their bodies and wet suits and surfboards and then threw everything, including themselves, dripping wet into an open Jeep.
Meanwhile I was joined by a local who decided that since I was sitting at the table by myself, I wanted conversation. He had just drawn a cup of the now fresh coffee.
He was the proud renter of the only odd numbered address in town. All the others are even numbered, because they sit on the beach side of the Pacific Coast Highway. His is the only place on the inland side of the PCH. He took obvious pride in his contrary address. Such is a western psyche earned by pioneers who braved hardships to push ever westward.
His place, my uninvited Californian said, is a hacienda in a lemon grove, what is left of an original ranch sold off in parcels to rich outsiders desiring water views. There was a lot more to his story. He told a good bit of it, and well.
He looked like a westerner. Thin and strong and wiry, he had a well worn baseball cap, the name of some equipment company advertised on the front. Between bill and cap was an earned stain of sweat and dirt. The brim was severely curled. Like the cook lady, his was another wind worn face. It bespoke years in the sun. He was a tradesman of some sort, a heavy equipment operator. He had a big and easy smile, crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
I got a decent chunk of his life story. How he found the lemon ranch place by chance after he moved up here to work for a local company, and moved from a trailer into a house, and was working to save up enough to bring his wife up from Southern Cali. It was a good story. And he loved telling it.
I would have asked the lemon rancher what the heck tri-trip is, but couldn't get a word in edgewise. I would have asked the cook lady, but she had disappeared again, sounds of sizzling and chopping in her wake.
Now I've done California, found it by serendipitous collision of a hungry belly and a small roadside sign.
Until this morning, I had seen the scenery of California, but had not experienced her personality. Today along the PCH, in glorious sun, I had California for breakfast alongside the sand and waves and surfers and beach folk.
There was a strong, on-shore wind today. At some points the PCH was obscured by mist rolling of the comers.
Once again the temperature was tolerable, but 10 degrees below desirable. Even so there were lots of bikes out. Oh yeah; it's Sunday.
I tooled along, mostly in sunshine. In fact, I never saw any of the rain predicted for today.
In Malibu I stopped for a soda at the most un-Malibu site in town. There is a grubby, small Phillips 76 station right on PCH where it meets Coral Canyon Road. Enjoying the anti-extravagance statement, I sat on a stone wall next the the Harley and watched the parade of exotic cars, BMWs and Mercedes AMGs are a dime a dozen here, and motorcycles of all kinds.
Malibu is just about the end of the scenic PCH above L.A., that is to say it is the beginning if you're headed north.
From there, headed south, I jumped on the 10 then the 405 zipping into L.A. Note my California speak. They never use the word “Interstate” here. If you give a route number, it is assumed to be an Interstate highway. If it is not, you state “Route” so and so, or “California” so and so.
The freeways are fast, and intense, and many-laned.
California drivers are as bad as they say. It is not the aggressiveness of New York. They're just all out to lunch. Three-quarters are on cell phones. Half of them drive up close to the steering wheel peering ahead of them and seeing nothing to either side or in their mirrors. They make clueless lane changes and speed changes. They change lanes without looking or indication. They don't believe blind spots exist.
Fortunately a bit of aggressiveness goes a long way here. My East Coast attitude, backed up by the powerful Harley V-Twin, allowed me to feel in control. I was sure to, and able to, maintain a big space cushion around the bike at all times.
I still have not split any lanes, legal here, and much discussed among motorcycle riders. Tomorrow is my last chance this trip.
Maybe I was not so clever with the Marriott as I thought. Whether it was my government rate or my biker appearance can perhaps be solved with a discussion with my sister-in-law Kathleen who taught me, vicariously, the government rate trick. I will have to ask her if the government rate equals the crappiest room.
Marriott L.A. Airport sits perpendicular to the runway and boulevard. That means there are only two rooms per floor that directly face the noise. I got one of them on the seventh floor.
My whole purpose staying here tonight was not to have to move my stuff, packing and unpacking from a cheaper hotel to move here for my IMAX convention. I will have to see what noises tonight brings. I am not optimistic. In addition to the jets and the honking taxi drivers, there is a window with a padlock that squeaks in the wind. If I was traveling with my own bike, instead of a rental bike, I would take some duct tape out of my tool kit and try to seal the window or at least dull the metallic click of the padlock.
Last night when I determined to stay in L.A., instead of striking out for San Diego, I justified it in figuring I would do some of the touristy things here. To that end, I dumped my stuff in the room and went back out to the bike for a short trip to Venice Beach.
Unfortunately, this was winter Venice Beach. A stiff wind was off the ocean and blowing a good bit of the beach across the parking lot. (I have sand in my ears still tonight at dinner as I write this.) I parked the Harley to take a picture near a break in the parking lot wall, but then moved it. I was afraid the paint would be sandblasted off if I left it in that spot near an entrance to the beach. Plus I was slipping on sand as I tried to backpedal the bike out of its space. I finally settled on the most sheltered spot I could find, as far away from the beach as possible on the city side of the parking lot.
(Boy am I ever on vacation. I just put cream and sugar in my coffee. I have been drinking coffee black since college. I forgot how good it tastes this way, like an indulgent coffee milkshake.)
It wasn't the Venice Beach you see on the Travel Channel. Oh, a very few girls gamely tried to show some skin. But it was like 50 degrees with gale force winds. A few rollerbladers went by, more skateboarders, more in the skate park. Muscle beach was deserted. The actual beach had less than a handful of strolling people. Nobody was sitting down. The sand was blowing across the beach and sweeping up the dunes and blowing off the tops like a “Lawrence of Arabia” movie. Mostly just folks, probably tourists like me, bundled up in sweatshirts and windbreakers, were walking the famed Venice strip.
Even the crazies were cut down to the hardcore few. One carried a cardboard sign, hand lettered, that said, “Circumcision Kills!” Funny, it hasn't deterred me for the past 54 years. Another decried the L.A. County Commissioners' moves to inhibit free speech on the Venice strip. (I am guessing someone asked them to pay rent for their stall.) Another had pictures of Hillary Clinton and George Bush, but so many confusing signs I could not really discern any pattern his protest.
Mostly it looked to me like a multi-block long walkway lined with Jersey Shore boardwalk type shops on the city side and a parade of losers on the beach side, all trying to eek out a living on cheap wares and marginal talent, respectively. I kept thinking maybe Annie would like something from Venice beach, something that said “California,” something unique. I saw only one potential vendor. But his painted mini surfboard would never have made the plane ride home.
I walked out to the end of the pier to watch the sunset. You can watch the sun fall into the ocean on this side of the country. At the very end of the pier a small group of people was having a ceremony of some sort. It involved flowers and in the end the leader passed a plastic grocery bag around for donations. I stayed away.
Like Santa Barbara, the bums tainted the ambiance. They blend in better in Venice than in the “Rivera of America.”
Rain finally came, at 11:11 p.m. I was very comfortably watching it from my seventh floor window. Dry. Inside. It's supposed to clear out by tomorrow late morning. Maybe I'll sleep in. It is, after all, my last vacation day.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Sightseeing eats time and cuts miles. Who cares?
Not obeying my own mantra, “Fear of rain is most always worse than rain itself,” last night I determined to see if I could come in a day early at the Airport Marriott, where my IMAX convention starts in two days.
I called in the morning. The rate was $199, my convention rate of $99 was not yet available. I played my government rate card and they came down to $110. So here I am, sitting in the Marriott restaurant, typing in today's ride remembrances.
My artisan hotel in Santa Barbara served no breakfast. No breakfast places were to be found close by. So I determined to hit the road and find something en route to L.A. I was hoping for a Denny's or something.
Nothing appeared for quite some time. I was really wanting that first cup of morning coffee, for nothing else than to burn out the leftover cigar taste in my mouth from the night before. Since my destination was now L.A., a reasonable two hour ride, I stuck with Route 1 the famous PCH, headed back in the direction I came a couple days earlier.
Suddenly a little sandwich board flashed past along the side of the road. Seaside Cafe, breakfast, lunch and dinner was advertised. I made a “uey” and dropped down a very steep switchback drive to the beach. It was one of the parks common to the California coast. Nothing more than the beach, parking lot, a few painted lines for RV parking, a pod for hookups, picnic table and fire ring. The campsites on the beach here are on the beach.
Opposite the campsites was a small building with restaurant and camp store serving meals and selling firewood and sundries. In front was one, very long, picnic table. A couple of surfers were standing around, tops of their wetsuits turned down exposing their chests and tattoos. I overheard they are here for the winter, down from Alaska to enjoy the warmth and waves. A lady was there too, sipping coffee.
A hand-written menu board offered breakfast burritos with bacon or “tri-tip,” six dollars.
I stood by the window for a very long time. I could hear someone was inside. The grill was sizzling. Glorious smells of grilling onions and meats wafted out of the window and mixed with the fresh, salty, beach air. Someone is in there. I hear grill noises, chopping, clanging metal spatula. Eventually the grill noises stopped. I figured maybe someone would take my order now. I waited, and waited longer and longer still.
Finally a very attractive, middle-aged lady, tall, with long blonde hair pulled back tight and sun weathered face appeared with a big smile and four breakfast burritos wrapped in shiny foil. She wore a bikini top over extra ample breasts with an apron layered on top. A set of turquoise beads started around her neck and disappeared into her cleavage. Hippy or surfer? I couldn't decide.
She seemed surprised to see me. But before I could explain, the lady sipping coffee walked up. “I'm sorry,” the cook lady said to me, “I'll take your order in just a moment.” To the coffee sipping lady she said, “Two breakfast burritos with tri-tip, and two with bacon.”
But the coffee lady had ordered only one with bacon. She asked if anyone wanted the extra with bacon. I hesitated. But the surfers were uninterested, so I said yes, in fact, that was exactly what I meant to order. (I had no idea what “tri-tip” was.)
The coffee lady paid in full for four burritos, then handed me the extra one with bacon. I held out my six dollars. But the coffee lady would not take it. I protested. She refused. “Give it to her instead as a tip,” the coffee lady said nodding her head toward the cook lady. So I did.
The cook lady was baffled too. “Well thank you,” she said to the coffee lady. The coffee lady said to forget it. “Let me give you something extra,” the cook lady offered. “It's okay. I know you,” the coffee lady said, adding that she was a regular and would be back and appreciated the cook lady and her cooking. “Then may I have your name?” the cook lady asked, preparing to write it down, I presume to later render some kindness or bonus to compensate on a future order. “None of that,” the coffee lady admonished, then walked off with her three burritos.
I stood there unsure of proper protocol for such a situation.
“Oh, now I have to make coffee and make breakfast for these boys, they've been very patient. Do you like strong coffee or weak coffee?” the cook lady asked me. “Any coffee,” I answered. “The coffee is 45 minutes old. I have to make new coffee. I will give you the old coffee for free in thanks for the extra money for the burrito. If you don't like the coffee, I will give you fresh coffee as soon as I make it, but first these boys have been so patient.”
She was California spacey and sweet and handed me a cup of steaming coffee. I'm guessing the permanent looking trailer next to the cement block cafe is hers. Guess she was attracted to the beach and found a way to stay.
I assured her I was fine, took the coffee from her with thanks and sat down to eat my very tasty, and large, and filling, breakfast burrito and drink the hot coffee. The coffee was fine. No waiting required. By fortune's smile I had jumped to the head of the line.
Looking to the surfers to see if they were upset, they were blissfully ignorant of the entire exchange.
“We may have missed our window of opportunity,” the one surfer said to the other. For a moment I thought they were thinking of me and my karma-produced, no-wait burrito. But it turned out they were assessing the wave action.
Eventually the surfers got their burritos. The were waiting for tri-trip after all. I will have to Google that. Never heard of the stuff. It sounds like a chemical.
I munched away, watching the waves and people.
My breakfast burrito was an entire Denny's “Grand Slam,” rolled into a tortilla. There were eggs, bacon, home fries, salsa, onions, all in an easy-to-hold form. No forks required. It was hot and delicious.
Another couple appeared and called into the window, rather loudly. I hadn't thought of that tactic. They were told the grill was out of breakfast. They ordered burgers and fries instead. The cook lady disappeared again.
She reappeared mid-preparation to sell a couple bundles of firewood to another camper.
Finally the surfer boys from Alaska got their breakfast. The other couple sat and waited for lunch.
A surfing couple emerged from the waves and walked up to an open public shower in front of me. They were muscular, both of them. Young and beautiful. He stripped off his wet suit first, down to nothing and then pulled on a pair of board shorts with nary a moment of modesty.
Unfortunately she wasn't so bold. He held a beach towel around her as she transitioned from wet suit to bikini. They washed the salt off their bodies and wet suits and surfboards and then threw everything, including themselves, dripping wet into an open Jeep.
Meanwhile I was joined by a local who decided that since I was sitting at the table by myself, I wanted conversation. He had just drawn a cup of the now fresh coffee.
He was the proud renter of the only odd numbered address in town. All the others are even numbered, because they sit on the beach side of the Pacific Coast Highway. His is the only place on the inland side of the PCH. He took obvious pride in his contrary address. Such is a western psyche earned by pioneers who braved hardships to push ever westward.
His place, my uninvited Californian said, is a hacienda in a lemon grove, what is left of an original ranch sold off in parcels to rich outsiders desiring water views. There was a lot more to his story. He told a good bit of it, and well.
He looked like a westerner. Thin and strong and wiry, he had a well worn baseball cap, the name of some equipment company advertised on the front. Between bill and cap was an earned stain of sweat and dirt. The brim was severely curled. Like the cook lady, his was another wind worn face. It bespoke years in the sun. He was a tradesman of some sort, a heavy equipment operator. He had a big and easy smile, crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
I got a decent chunk of his life story. How he found the lemon ranch place by chance after he moved up here to work for a local company, and moved from a trailer into a house, and was working to save up enough to bring his wife up from Southern Cali. It was a good story. And he loved telling it.
I would have asked the lemon rancher what the heck tri-trip is, but couldn't get a word in edgewise. I would have asked the cook lady, but she had disappeared again, sounds of sizzling and chopping in her wake.
Now I've done California, found it by serendipitous collision of a hungry belly and a small roadside sign.
Until this morning, I had seen the scenery of California, but had not experienced her personality. Today along the PCH, in glorious sun, I had California for breakfast alongside the sand and waves and surfers and beach folk.
There was a strong, on-shore wind today. At some points the PCH was obscured by mist rolling of the comers.
Once again the temperature was tolerable, but 10 degrees below desirable. Even so there were lots of bikes out. Oh yeah; it's Sunday.
I tooled along, mostly in sunshine. In fact, I never saw any of the rain predicted for today.
In Malibu I stopped for a soda at the most un-Malibu site in town. There is a grubby, small Phillips 76 station right on PCH where it meets Coral Canyon Road. Enjoying the anti-extravagance statement, I sat on a stone wall next the the Harley and watched the parade of exotic cars, BMWs and Mercedes AMGs are a dime a dozen here, and motorcycles of all kinds.
Malibu is just about the end of the scenic PCH above L.A., that is to say it is the beginning if you're headed north.
From there, headed south, I jumped on the 10 then the 405 zipping into L.A. Note my California speak. They never use the word “Interstate” here. If you give a route number, it is assumed to be an Interstate highway. If it is not, you state “Route” so and so, or “California” so and so.
The freeways are fast, and intense, and many-laned.
California drivers are as bad as they say. It is not the aggressiveness of New York. They're just all out to lunch. Three-quarters are on cell phones. Half of them drive up close to the steering wheel peering ahead of them and seeing nothing to either side or in their mirrors. They make clueless lane changes and speed changes. They change lanes without looking or indication. They don't believe blind spots exist.
Fortunately a bit of aggressiveness goes a long way here. My East Coast attitude, backed up by the powerful Harley V-Twin, allowed me to feel in control. I was sure to, and able to, maintain a big space cushion around the bike at all times.
I still have not split any lanes, legal here, and much discussed among motorcycle riders. Tomorrow is my last chance this trip.
Maybe I was not so clever with the Marriott as I thought. Whether it was my government rate or my biker appearance can perhaps be solved with a discussion with my sister-in-law Kathleen who taught me, vicariously, the government rate trick. I will have to ask her if the government rate equals the crappiest room.
Marriott L.A. Airport sits perpendicular to the runway and boulevard. That means there are only two rooms per floor that directly face the noise. I got one of them on the seventh floor.
My whole purpose staying here tonight was not to have to move my stuff, packing and unpacking from a cheaper hotel to move here for my IMAX convention. I will have to see what noises tonight brings. I am not optimistic. In addition to the jets and the honking taxi drivers, there is a window with a padlock that squeaks in the wind. If I was traveling with my own bike, instead of a rental bike, I would take some duct tape out of my tool kit and try to seal the window or at least dull the metallic click of the padlock.
Last night when I determined to stay in L.A., instead of striking out for San Diego, I justified it in figuring I would do some of the touristy things here. To that end, I dumped my stuff in the room and went back out to the bike for a short trip to Venice Beach.
Unfortunately, this was winter Venice Beach. A stiff wind was off the ocean and blowing a good bit of the beach across the parking lot. (I have sand in my ears still tonight at dinner as I write this.) I parked the Harley to take a picture near a break in the parking lot wall, but then moved it. I was afraid the paint would be sandblasted off if I left it in that spot near an entrance to the beach. Plus I was slipping on sand as I tried to backpedal the bike out of its space. I finally settled on the most sheltered spot I could find, as far away from the beach as possible on the city side of the parking lot.
(Boy am I ever on vacation. I just put cream and sugar in my coffee. I have been drinking coffee black since college. I forgot how good it tastes this way, like an indulgent coffee milkshake.)
It wasn't the Venice Beach you see on the Travel Channel. Oh, a very few girls gamely tried to show some skin. But it was like 50 degrees with gale force winds. A few rollerbladers went by, more skateboarders, more in the skate park. Muscle beach was deserted. The actual beach had less than a handful of strolling people. Nobody was sitting down. The sand was blowing across the beach and sweeping up the dunes and blowing off the tops like a “Lawrence of Arabia” movie. Mostly just folks, probably tourists like me, bundled up in sweatshirts and windbreakers, were walking the famed Venice strip.
Even the crazies were cut down to the hardcore few. One carried a cardboard sign, hand lettered, that said, “Circumcision Kills!” Funny, it hasn't deterred me for the past 54 years. Another decried the L.A. County Commissioners' moves to inhibit free speech on the Venice strip. (I am guessing someone asked them to pay rent for their stall.) Another had pictures of Hillary Clinton and George Bush, but so many confusing signs I could not really discern any pattern his protest.
Mostly it looked to me like a multi-block long walkway lined with Jersey Shore boardwalk type shops on the city side and a parade of losers on the beach side, all trying to eek out a living on cheap wares and marginal talent, respectively. I kept thinking maybe Annie would like something from Venice beach, something that said “California,” something unique. I saw only one potential vendor. But his painted mini surfboard would never have made the plane ride home.
I walked out to the end of the pier to watch the sunset. You can watch the sun fall into the ocean on this side of the country. At the very end of the pier a small group of people was having a ceremony of some sort. It involved flowers and in the end the leader passed a plastic grocery bag around for donations. I stayed away.
Like Santa Barbara, the bums tainted the ambiance. They blend in better in Venice than in the “Rivera of America.”
Rain finally came, at 11:11 p.m. I was very comfortably watching it from my seventh floor window. Dry. Inside. It's supposed to clear out by tomorrow late morning. Maybe I'll sleep in. It is, after all, my last vacation day.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
California Day Four
California Day Four
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Waking early I serenely fell back to sleep until my late alarm at 8 a.m. Amazing that, because the hotel was filled with girls youth soccer teams. They were up early, boisterously so.
Next door there is a diner and the hotel offers, in lieu of free breakfast, a five dollar voucher. It was not nearly enough. This is not a diner, at least not East Coast style. Maybe all diners in California charge $4.75 for a glass of orange juice. And it was a regular size glass, nothing jumbo about it. Five dollars? Really? Don't they grow the freakin' fruit just down the road?
I got a short stack of pancakes, which was more than enough and a cup of coffee. That's it. My voucher still covered just half my breakfast expenditure.
Guess the Greeks haven't found California yet.
Last night I was perusing the hotel information booklet. A listing under “area attractions” caught my eye, a warbirds museum. This morning I arrived at Estrella Warbirds, walked in just behind a classic car club, one of whose members apparently was also a member of the museum. The delightfully sweet, older lady who took my 10 dollars, suggested I join the car club's tour as it was just getting started.
Notice how you always find old people at museums?
The guy leading the tour was a WWII pilot, met Pappy Boyington, in person. He gave a delightful tour. I ended up spending more time here than even Monterey Bay Aquarium. The old fellow had a story for every exhibit. He kept promising to speed up the tour, then drifted off into another story. We won't have these guys around for very much longer. Hopefully they will be replaced by other old guys who flew in Vietnam or Iraq.
It is the same at the New England Air Museum. If you go there on certain days, they have pilots who actually flew, in combat, the same type of plane you are viewing. Each pilot stands next to the kind of plane he flew and tells stories. What it really was like.
How amazing it must be for those who were there and came out alive. I am too old now to serve. But I always wonder how my life would have turned had I accepted a Marine Corps commission straight out of college. I would not have been a pilot. My eyes require correction.
I am not sure where, or how, I would have served. And that is a big factor that kept me out of the military. I was not afraid to go to some troubled land. It was that I was not so ready to surrender my destiny so completely. With my college and writing ability, I could well have ended up behind a desk. What good is joining the Marines if you don't get to blow something up?
“All man's achievements pale in comparison to war.” It was a tank commander who said that, a Californian named George Patton. And when you look at the millions of dollars of airborne death machines, now museum pieces, you glimpse only a sliver of what Patton said.
The museum encompassed most all of aviation. There was a not so good model of the Wright flyer. Some very interesting WWI artifacts, the war to end all wars.
All the WWII planes, except for a Douglass Bomber, were in hangers. They have some scout planes, small stuff and the big bomber.
Parked outside are a collection of fighter planes from various wars, starting with Korea. They have the Saber Jet, a plane I have always admired. It was the jet plane model I played with as a kid. Famous MiG killer. Compact, powerful and those menacing six, 50 caliber machine guns sticking out of the nose.
Also is the similarly built Douglass A6 Intruder. I have been fascinated with the plane since reading “Flight of the Intruder.” Like the Saber, the Intruder is a stubby plane. Pilot and bombardier sit side by side. Unlike the Sabre, Intruder carries no guns or missiles to defend itself. It relied instead upon its speed and radar jamming equipment.
My morning melted into the past.
When I suited up to go the sun was so bright I optimistically donned my fingerless gloves. I was hoping to come back from California with the telltale tanned patches on the back of my hands that only a fellow biker would recognize. After an exit or two on the Interstate, I got off to switch to winter gloves. It was warm enough, at least, that I did not need my heaviest set of insulated winter gloves.
Clouds were all around, hovering over the mountains again. Intrinsically I understand convection and precipitation. It is another thing to see it demonstrated so clearly. You don't get the same effect back East.
Here you are riding down Route 101 South on a pool table flat plain. On either side of you are what appear to be scrub covered hills. Except some of these rise up 1, 2, 3 thousand feet, some up to five, in a very short distance.
Our mountains are much more gradual. There are lots of trees disguising the rise in elevation. You can't get so close to Eastern mountains without first traveling through Piedmont and hills. In California you look across the plains and, zoom, the mountains leap up from the plain. Can you imagine getting here in an ox-drawn wagon? Knowing where the passes are would be critical.
Again today I had to squeeze through the mountains at the end of the valley. When I did, I got rained upon again. Not a lot. On the other side I was back skirting the Pacific Ocean. It's winds drove the clouds inland to the mountains. The air was cool still, too cool for what I had hoped from this trip. But at least today the sun shown most all my ride.
My target today was the Santa Barbara zoo. They have meerkats and I was hoping to get some good pictures, or at least see how they were exhibited. (Such are the sumer attraction at The Maritime Aquarium where I work.) Only when I approached the ticket booth the sign said the exhibit was closed today. I did not go in.
By now it was 3:00 and I was maybe an hour above L.A. I'm thinking I don't want to stay in L.A. I don't want to ride into L.A. anywhere near 5 p.m. And I am not sure I have enough time, or warmth, left in the day to cross the sprawling city for something better on the south side.
I backtracked through Santa Barbara and found a boutique hotel for tonight. It's a little pricey at $124, that was $20 off the regular rate, or so they told me.
Santa Barbara says it is “America's Riviera.” Funny, South Beach, Fla., says the same thing on the right coast.
Santa Barbara has more bums than South Beach. Here the bums are very scruffy looking. The ocean front is littered with them, gathered in clans, sleeping alone surrounded by their piles. The dodge is on and they all have their hands out, some with signs declaring their hunger.
I always wonder what these guys were like in high school. They had access to the same free education as us all. I wonder, did they waste it? Were they too young to see the value?
Well even Jesus said, “The poor will always be with us.” That's some cold hearted reality from Emmanuel, the God among us.
Santa Barbara offers a long jogging, walking, bicycling path sandwiched between the main road and beach.
I had time to go for a run along the beach on the path with the sound of waves and seagulls. Geeze, I gotta get back in shape. My hotel is at the northern end of the path. I never ran far enough to see the southern end.
Tonight I am eating out on a pier, overlooking the harbor, channel buoys blinking red and green outside the window; remember, red right return.
After dinner I now walked the long path back to my hotel, enjoying a good cigar picked up in Monterey yesterday. A chilly wind comes off the ocean. I zip my rain jacket all the way up my neck and fasten the snap to hold it close, push my free hand (one required to tend the cigar) down deep into the pocket. Shouldn't complain. It is February after all.
Just as I am finding my relaxation, I am nearly out of time. Tomorrow, Sunday, is predicted for rain. I haven't yet decided what to do. Riding all day in the rain is not my first choice.
Los Angeles is like a gulf, a dead zone of urbanization, that I must cross to get back to scenery. I have to MapQuest it out to see if I should try. The bike isn't due until Tuesday morning. But I have IMAX meetings at 6 and 7 pm on Monday. So I will turn the bike in Monday before Eagle Rider closes at 5. That means I really have one and a half days left of vacation.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Waking early I serenely fell back to sleep until my late alarm at 8 a.m. Amazing that, because the hotel was filled with girls youth soccer teams. They were up early, boisterously so.
Next door there is a diner and the hotel offers, in lieu of free breakfast, a five dollar voucher. It was not nearly enough. This is not a diner, at least not East Coast style. Maybe all diners in California charge $4.75 for a glass of orange juice. And it was a regular size glass, nothing jumbo about it. Five dollars? Really? Don't they grow the freakin' fruit just down the road?
I got a short stack of pancakes, which was more than enough and a cup of coffee. That's it. My voucher still covered just half my breakfast expenditure.
Guess the Greeks haven't found California yet.
Last night I was perusing the hotel information booklet. A listing under “area attractions” caught my eye, a warbirds museum. This morning I arrived at Estrella Warbirds, walked in just behind a classic car club, one of whose members apparently was also a member of the museum. The delightfully sweet, older lady who took my 10 dollars, suggested I join the car club's tour as it was just getting started.
Notice how you always find old people at museums?
The guy leading the tour was a WWII pilot, met Pappy Boyington, in person. He gave a delightful tour. I ended up spending more time here than even Monterey Bay Aquarium. The old fellow had a story for every exhibit. He kept promising to speed up the tour, then drifted off into another story. We won't have these guys around for very much longer. Hopefully they will be replaced by other old guys who flew in Vietnam or Iraq.
It is the same at the New England Air Museum. If you go there on certain days, they have pilots who actually flew, in combat, the same type of plane you are viewing. Each pilot stands next to the kind of plane he flew and tells stories. What it really was like.
How amazing it must be for those who were there and came out alive. I am too old now to serve. But I always wonder how my life would have turned had I accepted a Marine Corps commission straight out of college. I would not have been a pilot. My eyes require correction.
I am not sure where, or how, I would have served. And that is a big factor that kept me out of the military. I was not afraid to go to some troubled land. It was that I was not so ready to surrender my destiny so completely. With my college and writing ability, I could well have ended up behind a desk. What good is joining the Marines if you don't get to blow something up?
“All man's achievements pale in comparison to war.” It was a tank commander who said that, a Californian named George Patton. And when you look at the millions of dollars of airborne death machines, now museum pieces, you glimpse only a sliver of what Patton said.
The museum encompassed most all of aviation. There was a not so good model of the Wright flyer. Some very interesting WWI artifacts, the war to end all wars.
All the WWII planes, except for a Douglass Bomber, were in hangers. They have some scout planes, small stuff and the big bomber.
Parked outside are a collection of fighter planes from various wars, starting with Korea. They have the Saber Jet, a plane I have always admired. It was the jet plane model I played with as a kid. Famous MiG killer. Compact, powerful and those menacing six, 50 caliber machine guns sticking out of the nose.
Also is the similarly built Douglass A6 Intruder. I have been fascinated with the plane since reading “Flight of the Intruder.” Like the Saber, the Intruder is a stubby plane. Pilot and bombardier sit side by side. Unlike the Sabre, Intruder carries no guns or missiles to defend itself. It relied instead upon its speed and radar jamming equipment.
My morning melted into the past.
When I suited up to go the sun was so bright I optimistically donned my fingerless gloves. I was hoping to come back from California with the telltale tanned patches on the back of my hands that only a fellow biker would recognize. After an exit or two on the Interstate, I got off to switch to winter gloves. It was warm enough, at least, that I did not need my heaviest set of insulated winter gloves.
Clouds were all around, hovering over the mountains again. Intrinsically I understand convection and precipitation. It is another thing to see it demonstrated so clearly. You don't get the same effect back East.
Here you are riding down Route 101 South on a pool table flat plain. On either side of you are what appear to be scrub covered hills. Except some of these rise up 1, 2, 3 thousand feet, some up to five, in a very short distance.
Our mountains are much more gradual. There are lots of trees disguising the rise in elevation. You can't get so close to Eastern mountains without first traveling through Piedmont and hills. In California you look across the plains and, zoom, the mountains leap up from the plain. Can you imagine getting here in an ox-drawn wagon? Knowing where the passes are would be critical.
Again today I had to squeeze through the mountains at the end of the valley. When I did, I got rained upon again. Not a lot. On the other side I was back skirting the Pacific Ocean. It's winds drove the clouds inland to the mountains. The air was cool still, too cool for what I had hoped from this trip. But at least today the sun shown most all my ride.
My target today was the Santa Barbara zoo. They have meerkats and I was hoping to get some good pictures, or at least see how they were exhibited. (Such are the sumer attraction at The Maritime Aquarium where I work.) Only when I approached the ticket booth the sign said the exhibit was closed today. I did not go in.
By now it was 3:00 and I was maybe an hour above L.A. I'm thinking I don't want to stay in L.A. I don't want to ride into L.A. anywhere near 5 p.m. And I am not sure I have enough time, or warmth, left in the day to cross the sprawling city for something better on the south side.
I backtracked through Santa Barbara and found a boutique hotel for tonight. It's a little pricey at $124, that was $20 off the regular rate, or so they told me.
Santa Barbara says it is “America's Riviera.” Funny, South Beach, Fla., says the same thing on the right coast.
Santa Barbara has more bums than South Beach. Here the bums are very scruffy looking. The ocean front is littered with them, gathered in clans, sleeping alone surrounded by their piles. The dodge is on and they all have their hands out, some with signs declaring their hunger.
I always wonder what these guys were like in high school. They had access to the same free education as us all. I wonder, did they waste it? Were they too young to see the value?
Well even Jesus said, “The poor will always be with us.” That's some cold hearted reality from Emmanuel, the God among us.
Santa Barbara offers a long jogging, walking, bicycling path sandwiched between the main road and beach.
I had time to go for a run along the beach on the path with the sound of waves and seagulls. Geeze, I gotta get back in shape. My hotel is at the northern end of the path. I never ran far enough to see the southern end.
Tonight I am eating out on a pier, overlooking the harbor, channel buoys blinking red and green outside the window; remember, red right return.
After dinner I now walked the long path back to my hotel, enjoying a good cigar picked up in Monterey yesterday. A chilly wind comes off the ocean. I zip my rain jacket all the way up my neck and fasten the snap to hold it close, push my free hand (one required to tend the cigar) down deep into the pocket. Shouldn't complain. It is February after all.
Just as I am finding my relaxation, I am nearly out of time. Tomorrow, Sunday, is predicted for rain. I haven't yet decided what to do. Riding all day in the rain is not my first choice.
Los Angeles is like a gulf, a dead zone of urbanization, that I must cross to get back to scenery. I have to MapQuest it out to see if I should try. The bike isn't due until Tuesday morning. But I have IMAX meetings at 6 and 7 pm on Monday. So I will turn the bike in Monday before Eagle Rider closes at 5. That means I really have one and a half days left of vacation.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
California Day Three
California Day Three
Friday, February 19, 2010
Monterey Bay Aquarium was, is, awesome.
Everything is done well. Thoughtful touches are everywhere. Cement support columns are painted as pilings. Rocks crop up all in hallways and doorways as you walk through the galleries, always with patches of corals, fans or mussels attached. Sometimes the rocks simply break up open space on the floor. Other times they form great arches, decorated with undersea plants and barnacles, giving you the feeling of being underwater everywhere inside the Aquarium.
They use sounds to good effect. There are video screens, big ones, lots of them.
It is rare to find a tank with a single species. Typically there are shrimp or crabs or multiple fish, even when one animal is clearly the focus. Their schooling tank is an amazing circular dome, fish swirling above your head. Another schooling tank for mackerel is cleverly constructed so that you see only one straightaway on the fish racetrack. The impression is a never ending stream of fish going by you.
They have jellies, a whole gallery of them. Monterey grows moon jellies as big as dinner plates. They have brown nettles, big ones, tentacles tangled together in a mass. They have comb jellies, streaming cilia clearly flashing.
Their penguins share their water with fish. Bromeliads accent their rockwork. Underwater views are natural with rockwork sides and sandy bottoms.
Monterey's “jewel” tanks come in various shapes and sizes. Some are domes you can walk around, others are half circles mounted to the wall with bottoms that appear to fall away to infinity. There is much clever use of perspective and trope d'oeil.
Touch tanks abound. One is a very long, serpentine presentation. There is a wave crash exhibit, not all that big. The aviary also was small, but amazing. And in the aviary waters leopard sharks and rays patrolled with small bait fish accents.
I was unimpressed with their big Outer Bay tank. Much hyped, it seems to fall out of character with the rest of the exhibits. It is big. But all plain blue with a curving back. The bottom had sand and rocks. Yes, I know the open ocean lacks perspective. Somehow the effect is lacking. Instead it looks like a big tank of water, a cement swimming pool painted blue. Fish population in this tank seemed lacking. There were some big fish. Tuna are amazing to see up close. Unfortunately one tuna was very obviously damaged or sick with a scaly growth around its mouth.
Hammerhead sharks are always cool and unique. Perhaps the best entertainment was the ever swirling school of bait fish darting around the tank, flashing and changing direction. There was no ocean sunfish, as promised in their advertising. (I was glad to see I'm not the only one that gets jammed up like that.)
The otter exhibit is big and two stories tall. But there were only two otters which significantly dampened the drama.
Monterey's signature tank is the three story tall kelp forest. That exhibit did not disappoint. They really maximize the tank with views from various related galleries. I was lucky enough to catch an interview with a diver as he fed the fish and spoke via wireless mike with a docent standing outside the tank, relaying questions from the audience.
Outside balconies along the back of the Aquarium open up to water views of Monterey Bay and the Pacific Ocean. Decks offer broad spaces for relaxation and tie Aquarium to bay and sea.
As morning neared noon the experience became less enjoyable. Obstreperous school children grew in number and volume.
I was ready to go anyway. Rain was forecast for the evening. It was cold along the coast. Luckily I was lured inland to Salinas to see John Steinbeck's old stomping grounds and museum. It was a worthwhile trip.
As you come up through the hills from Monterey, quite suddenly you drop down into the tabletop flat Salinas River Valley. I also picked up a few degrees temperature and even, gasp, some breaks of sunshine.
This is perhaps the richest soil on earth, millions of years of rich topsoil drained from the mountains on either side of the valley. The hills are now scrubby, not much grows on the depleted and arid slopes after the good soil ran off to the valley. Hills are deeply cut, like most of the California I have seen so far. But the bottom land, black, deep soils, mounded high and covered with plastic for strawberries or neatly plied into rows of various construction according to their crop, broccoli, cauliflower, lettuce. Amazing vistas stretched on either side as I cut across the valley, east to Salinas.
On the way across, I got a pleasant surprise as I passed by Laguna Seca racetrack. I did not stop. There was too much travel left for today and I already spent half my tourism time on the Aquarium, the second half was promised to John Steinbeck.
The museum was well done and included an agricultural museum and art gallery. There were some Steinbeck artifacts and an interesting history of this amazing farmland, and the immigrant workers who continue to come here and do the very difficult stoop work and hand operations required to grow high value crops.
An interesting adjunct was that Japanese farmers who first came here could not legally own land. So they leased the land until their children, born here and therefore automatic citizens, became of legal age and “purchased” the land on their parents behalf. I am not sure such a multi-generational plan would work with most Americans.
There has been an international parade of farm workers. Interesting that the great Mexican immigration was actually encouraged by the Federal Government to replace Japanese workers locked up by the government in interment camps during WWII. After the Mexicans, workers streamed in from other countries so poor as to make look good such backbreaking, hot, stoop work as is required by large scale vegetable growing. I think the museum said Philippinos are now the latest group.
From Salinas I stayed inland, riding Route 101 south. Lush lands stretched out before me and I tooled along an arrow-straight highway.
I could see the weather moving in from the seaside horizon. Riding south the mountains to my right were dark; angry, flat and heavy clouds boiled up and over them from the sea. The mountains to my right still glowed in soft patches of sun as puffy clouds cruised above them.
For a while there I was thinking I could make it back to Pismo Beach and that cool hotel hanging on the cliffs. But it was getting darker. I finally pulled off and switched my glasses from darks to clears. Well at least things appeared lighter with the clear glasses, but not off to the west. Now I could actually see rain falling on the hills on my right.
What was also clear was that the valley was ending. The two mountain ranges seemed to be converging ahead of me. As I got closer, the road began turning to work its way up, switchbacking through the hills. It also started raining, lightly, but rain brought cold.
I was starting to think that I wasn't needing to push too far today. Certainly it would be wetter and colder on the coast. As Route 101 exits this valley, that's where it heads.
A couple of billboards for Black Oak Best Western in Paso Robles convinced me and quite at the last minute I dove off the exit. I figured it just right. I mean I was no sooner parking the bike at hotel registration than the big rain drops began falling. (The hotel even had dedicated bike parking spots for registration.)
It rained, steady, well into the night.
Just around the corner I enjoyed dinner at Big Bubba's Bad BBQ. Actually, it was pretty good.
From my hotel room's information booklet, I learned Estrella War Bird Museum is nearby. A bit of Googling convinced me it is the way to start my day tomorrow.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Monterey Bay Aquarium was, is, awesome.
Everything is done well. Thoughtful touches are everywhere. Cement support columns are painted as pilings. Rocks crop up all in hallways and doorways as you walk through the galleries, always with patches of corals, fans or mussels attached. Sometimes the rocks simply break up open space on the floor. Other times they form great arches, decorated with undersea plants and barnacles, giving you the feeling of being underwater everywhere inside the Aquarium.
They use sounds to good effect. There are video screens, big ones, lots of them.
It is rare to find a tank with a single species. Typically there are shrimp or crabs or multiple fish, even when one animal is clearly the focus. Their schooling tank is an amazing circular dome, fish swirling above your head. Another schooling tank for mackerel is cleverly constructed so that you see only one straightaway on the fish racetrack. The impression is a never ending stream of fish going by you.
They have jellies, a whole gallery of them. Monterey grows moon jellies as big as dinner plates. They have brown nettles, big ones, tentacles tangled together in a mass. They have comb jellies, streaming cilia clearly flashing.
Their penguins share their water with fish. Bromeliads accent their rockwork. Underwater views are natural with rockwork sides and sandy bottoms.
Monterey's “jewel” tanks come in various shapes and sizes. Some are domes you can walk around, others are half circles mounted to the wall with bottoms that appear to fall away to infinity. There is much clever use of perspective and trope d'oeil.
Touch tanks abound. One is a very long, serpentine presentation. There is a wave crash exhibit, not all that big. The aviary also was small, but amazing. And in the aviary waters leopard sharks and rays patrolled with small bait fish accents.
I was unimpressed with their big Outer Bay tank. Much hyped, it seems to fall out of character with the rest of the exhibits. It is big. But all plain blue with a curving back. The bottom had sand and rocks. Yes, I know the open ocean lacks perspective. Somehow the effect is lacking. Instead it looks like a big tank of water, a cement swimming pool painted blue. Fish population in this tank seemed lacking. There were some big fish. Tuna are amazing to see up close. Unfortunately one tuna was very obviously damaged or sick with a scaly growth around its mouth.
Hammerhead sharks are always cool and unique. Perhaps the best entertainment was the ever swirling school of bait fish darting around the tank, flashing and changing direction. There was no ocean sunfish, as promised in their advertising. (I was glad to see I'm not the only one that gets jammed up like that.)
The otter exhibit is big and two stories tall. But there were only two otters which significantly dampened the drama.
Monterey's signature tank is the three story tall kelp forest. That exhibit did not disappoint. They really maximize the tank with views from various related galleries. I was lucky enough to catch an interview with a diver as he fed the fish and spoke via wireless mike with a docent standing outside the tank, relaying questions from the audience.
Outside balconies along the back of the Aquarium open up to water views of Monterey Bay and the Pacific Ocean. Decks offer broad spaces for relaxation and tie Aquarium to bay and sea.
As morning neared noon the experience became less enjoyable. Obstreperous school children grew in number and volume.
I was ready to go anyway. Rain was forecast for the evening. It was cold along the coast. Luckily I was lured inland to Salinas to see John Steinbeck's old stomping grounds and museum. It was a worthwhile trip.
As you come up through the hills from Monterey, quite suddenly you drop down into the tabletop flat Salinas River Valley. I also picked up a few degrees temperature and even, gasp, some breaks of sunshine.
This is perhaps the richest soil on earth, millions of years of rich topsoil drained from the mountains on either side of the valley. The hills are now scrubby, not much grows on the depleted and arid slopes after the good soil ran off to the valley. Hills are deeply cut, like most of the California I have seen so far. But the bottom land, black, deep soils, mounded high and covered with plastic for strawberries or neatly plied into rows of various construction according to their crop, broccoli, cauliflower, lettuce. Amazing vistas stretched on either side as I cut across the valley, east to Salinas.
On the way across, I got a pleasant surprise as I passed by Laguna Seca racetrack. I did not stop. There was too much travel left for today and I already spent half my tourism time on the Aquarium, the second half was promised to John Steinbeck.
The museum was well done and included an agricultural museum and art gallery. There were some Steinbeck artifacts and an interesting history of this amazing farmland, and the immigrant workers who continue to come here and do the very difficult stoop work and hand operations required to grow high value crops.
An interesting adjunct was that Japanese farmers who first came here could not legally own land. So they leased the land until their children, born here and therefore automatic citizens, became of legal age and “purchased” the land on their parents behalf. I am not sure such a multi-generational plan would work with most Americans.
There has been an international parade of farm workers. Interesting that the great Mexican immigration was actually encouraged by the Federal Government to replace Japanese workers locked up by the government in interment camps during WWII. After the Mexicans, workers streamed in from other countries so poor as to make look good such backbreaking, hot, stoop work as is required by large scale vegetable growing. I think the museum said Philippinos are now the latest group.
From Salinas I stayed inland, riding Route 101 south. Lush lands stretched out before me and I tooled along an arrow-straight highway.
I could see the weather moving in from the seaside horizon. Riding south the mountains to my right were dark; angry, flat and heavy clouds boiled up and over them from the sea. The mountains to my right still glowed in soft patches of sun as puffy clouds cruised above them.
For a while there I was thinking I could make it back to Pismo Beach and that cool hotel hanging on the cliffs. But it was getting darker. I finally pulled off and switched my glasses from darks to clears. Well at least things appeared lighter with the clear glasses, but not off to the west. Now I could actually see rain falling on the hills on my right.
What was also clear was that the valley was ending. The two mountain ranges seemed to be converging ahead of me. As I got closer, the road began turning to work its way up, switchbacking through the hills. It also started raining, lightly, but rain brought cold.
I was starting to think that I wasn't needing to push too far today. Certainly it would be wetter and colder on the coast. As Route 101 exits this valley, that's where it heads.
A couple of billboards for Black Oak Best Western in Paso Robles convinced me and quite at the last minute I dove off the exit. I figured it just right. I mean I was no sooner parking the bike at hotel registration than the big rain drops began falling. (The hotel even had dedicated bike parking spots for registration.)
It rained, steady, well into the night.
Just around the corner I enjoyed dinner at Big Bubba's Bad BBQ. Actually, it was pretty good.
From my hotel room's information booklet, I learned Estrella War Bird Museum is nearby. A bit of Googling convinced me it is the way to start my day tomorrow.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Langhorne, PA; March 21, 2010
Langhorne, Penn., March 21, 2010
What do you call unusually warm days at the first of spring? Were it fall we would say Indian Summer. We were blessed with a first and second day of spring that felt nearly like summer after a long and crappy winter. And as I write this on a cold, rainy, overworked Monday, I still can destress a bit as I bask for a moment or two in Sunday's memory.
Actually I got a double treat from this past ride. Our destination is just an hour north of my folk's home in Wilmington, Del., just south of Philadelphia. So it is one where I sometimes ride down on Saturday, spend some time with the folks, and meet my pals at Brian's Harley-Davidson on Sunday for the ride home.
Typically I do a few chores for Mom and she rewards me with favorite foods. This Saturday I planted a tree, washed windows on the sunroom, small labor in exchange for steak dinner and scrapple breakfast.
As a bonus I got to chat with Mom and Dad and play with their dog Heidi. Double bonus: I get to sleep in Sunday morning.
Amazingly I pulled into Brian's Sunday morning less than two minutes after my guys. They were just making their way away from the bikes after stowing helmets, jackets, gloves and such.
It was already warm. I gladly stripped off the jacket and riding pants and joined my guys at the dealership. You can tell it's no longer Polar Bear weather; sign-up tables were set outside. Brian's H-D offered a tasty lunch on their outdoor, rooftop patio.
As we chatted over lunch, I discovered that I missed a scenic ride down to Brian's. John J., as he remembers it, was pressed into leading the pack on a moment's notice. He hastily punched in directions to his GPS and blindly followed the soulless computer deep into downtown Trenton. Well, that's one way to get out of leading future rides.
John J. was ruminating his GPS settings at lunch, thinking maybe he set it for “shortest distance” rather than “fastest time.” He seemed to withstand the good natured criticism of his fellow riders.
Your blogger was most definitely not criticizing. First of all I don't even own a GPS. So for me to lead a ride I have to prepare directions ahead of time, consult maps and write key turns on my rear view mirrors with a grease pencil.
Lately I have been getting lazy and not even glancing at a map to determine our route. I run MapQuest from my house to the destination to get the distance and estimated travel time. I never even look below the top of the page at the driving directions and maps. I always just assume one of my GPS-enabled compatriots will gladly take me to our destination and back again. And yes I have the nerve to then complain as loudly as the others when his chosen route does not meet with my satisfaction. Geeze! With friends like me . . . .
Ron joined us on his new Goldwing. This is is second ride with the Connecticut Bears. The first ride to Montgomeryville he nearly froze. Sunday's ride was perhaps more to his liking. But it sounds like he is warming to the winter riding idea, pun intended.
The new wing is blinged-out with lots of extra LEDs. Maybe because they don't carry chrome as well as a Harley, the Hondas look better with decorative lighting instead?
Ron was accompanied by a pretty lady, Blanca. She didn't say much, but smiled a lot. It can take some getting used to our crowd before you are ready to jump into the conversation. Ron and Blanca enjoyed the warm riding so much they continued on to the Connecticut Indian casinos. I'm not sure how he was figuring to get back home. Warm March days can turn pretty dang cold as soon as the sun fades.
Russ and Bart shared some of their Daytona adventures. But aside from talking about Michelle Smith, I really did not hear much about what else they did there. On the other hand, we heard a lot about what Pat and Pete did, and did not do. You're in trouble anytime Russ is telling the story and you are not present to damp-down the embellishments.
What do you call unusually warm days at the first of spring? Were it fall we would say Indian Summer. We were blessed with a first and second day of spring that felt nearly like summer after a long and crappy winter. And as I write this on a cold, rainy, overworked Monday, I still can destress a bit as I bask for a moment or two in Sunday's memory.
Actually I got a double treat from this past ride. Our destination is just an hour north of my folk's home in Wilmington, Del., just south of Philadelphia. So it is one where I sometimes ride down on Saturday, spend some time with the folks, and meet my pals at Brian's Harley-Davidson on Sunday for the ride home.
Typically I do a few chores for Mom and she rewards me with favorite foods. This Saturday I planted a tree, washed windows on the sunroom, small labor in exchange for steak dinner and scrapple breakfast.
As a bonus I got to chat with Mom and Dad and play with their dog Heidi. Double bonus: I get to sleep in Sunday morning.
Amazingly I pulled into Brian's Sunday morning less than two minutes after my guys. They were just making their way away from the bikes after stowing helmets, jackets, gloves and such.
It was already warm. I gladly stripped off the jacket and riding pants and joined my guys at the dealership. You can tell it's no longer Polar Bear weather; sign-up tables were set outside. Brian's H-D offered a tasty lunch on their outdoor, rooftop patio.
As we chatted over lunch, I discovered that I missed a scenic ride down to Brian's. John J., as he remembers it, was pressed into leading the pack on a moment's notice. He hastily punched in directions to his GPS and blindly followed the soulless computer deep into downtown Trenton. Well, that's one way to get out of leading future rides.
John J. was ruminating his GPS settings at lunch, thinking maybe he set it for “shortest distance” rather than “fastest time.” He seemed to withstand the good natured criticism of his fellow riders.
Your blogger was most definitely not criticizing. First of all I don't even own a GPS. So for me to lead a ride I have to prepare directions ahead of time, consult maps and write key turns on my rear view mirrors with a grease pencil.
Lately I have been getting lazy and not even glancing at a map to determine our route. I run MapQuest from my house to the destination to get the distance and estimated travel time. I never even look below the top of the page at the driving directions and maps. I always just assume one of my GPS-enabled compatriots will gladly take me to our destination and back again. And yes I have the nerve to then complain as loudly as the others when his chosen route does not meet with my satisfaction. Geeze! With friends like me . . . .
Ron joined us on his new Goldwing. This is is second ride with the Connecticut Bears. The first ride to Montgomeryville he nearly froze. Sunday's ride was perhaps more to his liking. But it sounds like he is warming to the winter riding idea, pun intended.
The new wing is blinged-out with lots of extra LEDs. Maybe because they don't carry chrome as well as a Harley, the Hondas look better with decorative lighting instead?
Ron was accompanied by a pretty lady, Blanca. She didn't say much, but smiled a lot. It can take some getting used to our crowd before you are ready to jump into the conversation. Ron and Blanca enjoyed the warm riding so much they continued on to the Connecticut Indian casinos. I'm not sure how he was figuring to get back home. Warm March days can turn pretty dang cold as soon as the sun fades.
Russ and Bart shared some of their Daytona adventures. But aside from talking about Michelle Smith, I really did not hear much about what else they did there. On the other hand, we heard a lot about what Pat and Pete did, and did not do. You're in trouble anytime Russ is telling the story and you are not present to damp-down the embellishments.
Long Valley, NJ; March 7, 2010
March 7, 2010
Long Valley, NJ
Back in the traces again, I returned to a tough work week, including going into the office on Saturday. So I was especially grateful to find a bit of solace in a beautiful motorcycle ride accompanied by the reliable warmth of friends and the unexpected warmth of pre-spring weather.
I do not ride Polar Bear season because I like to be cold. I think most motorcyclists would rather ride in warm than cold or hot. One exception may be Polar Bear Grand Tour Chairman Bob Hartpence who does not feel cold like most human beings. He was joking about wearing shorts on Sunday.
Sunday's weather was a treat. We started in 'pert near 40 degree weather and finished in the low 60s.
To boot, John Howard worked out a route that took us through a bit of scenic New Jersey so we did not have to make that very messy traffic light and attendant quick turn into Long Valley Brewery. I knew not where we were after we jumped off Route 80. Nonetheless, you have to trust your group leader. So we rode some two lane roads through hills and farms and sure enough, John H. signaled one last left turn and we were there.
We had five bikes, less than I expected. Generally, warm weather brings out more Polar Cubs who are on my e-mail alert list but rarely show for January rides. We get them at the beginning and end of the season, depending upon the weather. And that's fine, by the way. Dead of winter riding is not for everybody.
With Token2 in the lead and the Captain in sweep, there was naught for me to do but enjoy the ride. I must admit I am getting rather lazy about these Polar Bear outings. I used to print out directions and maps for every destination. Now I just show up for the ride, content to allow one of my GPS equipped compatriots lead me to and from our destination.
It is one of the luxuries of group riding.
While in California, delayed by snow, I rented a car for a couple days to go sightseeing in the sun while I waited for snow to stop falling back home. I figured I would see the shark, walk the stars, do the tourist thing.
Through Expedia I got a car from Budget, across the street from my hotel, for $16 a day. Figuring that was a good deal, I went ahead and rented the GPS for another $13 a day. I must say it was a positive experience. I am a bit old fashioned (or maybe slow, my Dad has a GPS), but it was the first time I spent any significant time with one of the contraptions.
Now I am contemplating one for the bike.
My bike is very retro. For gauges I have only gas and speed. No tachometer, I use my ears and butt to know when to shift. No radio. No temperature nor oil pressure gauges. A GPS will definitely damage the look. But I can see how it could be useful when touring.
Fortunately, as a Polar Bear I have a built in cadre of product testers. So once they read this blog, now that I have publicly admitted an interest, I will be able to learn from thousands of dollars of mistakes and product upgrades absorbed by my riding buddies. I will also likely get a raft of grief over finally coming around. If you have been a faithful blog reader, you know I have ridiculed my electronic pals.
Long Valley Brewery put out a beautiful brunch buffet. (Sorry, hon. I really will start that post vacation diet, maybe tomorrow.) Token2 had to teach their chef how to make a scrambled egg. And Captain got the last two benedictine eggs. All the same, I scored some goodies with a high brow/low brow breakfast strategy including smoked salmon and biscuits with gravy. John J. and I both took a slice of the cake. It was delicious, cream cheese and sugar with just enough flour cake to hold the frosting together. Coffee service was slow, but by the time we were ready for our second cup the joint was jumpin' and there was a line for sign-in.
Fonz earned his Polar Bear patch and red rocker on this ride. Welcome to the Polar Bear Club! You will have to get a special CTPB patch from our Sargent at Arms, Grumpy.
We walked outside and Token2 used a miniature tripod to take the group photo. Unfortunately we've lost Grumpy to night shift.
Once we were back in line and headed out, Token2 had his left turn signal on, waiting, waiting, waiting for a gap to get down the short bit to that troublesome traffic light. A word with John J. and Token reversed his signals. We took a right and snuck back out the way we came, over hills and dales to Route 80.
At Chez GSP Fonz and I had a side conversation going about the Rider Education Program. We shared some of our best teaching stories. Classes start soon. It was sort of “the blind leading the blind” because neither of us made our site manager's update meeting. Pogy called in from Korea to say we should not look for him at the Darien rest stop this Sunday.
I shared the good news with Fonz that we were switching to an all combination lock system. This will save Fonz a lot of time in doubling back to the site to return the keys he forgot to put in the briefcase when he handed it over to Pogy for the next instructor. Now if we can just figure out who disappeared the DVD!
Pogy is literally circling the world this trip. He started in Japan, was calling me from Korea and is next on to India. Hopefully we will see him again in a week or two when he's done wrangling helicopters.
Fonz and I were interrupted by a more boisterous conversation at the other end of the table. We had to throw some water on the Captain to cool him down. Seems he was watching Fox News again and talking politics.
Yeah, I know, we're never going to retire, all the money will be gone or useless, and health care is going to bankrupt the treasury one way or the other. Hey, I figure that's all the more reason to get in as many good rides as we can before it all comes crashing down.
Man has been predicting the end of the world ever since he first figured out that he, too, was going to die someday. From that wellspring all religion flows.
On I-287 on the way back I hit a serious pothole. I didn't lose any tooth fillings or wheel spokes, but my EZ Pass popped off the windshield. I saw it disappear in a flash, but did not see it skittering along the highway. It was just before we move over to exit to the Merritt Parkway. Come to think about it, right about the same place Grumpy's transponder bounced. I saw his spin off to the shoulder and recovered it for him.
No such luck for me!
I looked around me thinking maybe it was caught on a saddlebag mount or niche around the engine. Nope.
As we merge onto the Merritt Parkway there is a very tight, descending radius, on-ramp. I generally get quite a bit of lean going so I can keep my speed up to launch onto the Parkway.
We rode for home, this one and that one gradually peeling off for his own house. I pulled off in Stratford, rode down to the gas station to fill the tank to the very top to minimize gas tank condensation. As I stood up, my EZ Pass magically reappeared on my seat. I guess somehow when it popped off I unknowingly caught it in my crotch. Even more amazing to me, it stayed right there as I shifted position and leaned the bike for a half hour.
There is something amazing on most every ride. See you next Sunday . . . if the Captain and Glen Beck are wrong and Sunday comes.
Long Valley, NJ
Back in the traces again, I returned to a tough work week, including going into the office on Saturday. So I was especially grateful to find a bit of solace in a beautiful motorcycle ride accompanied by the reliable warmth of friends and the unexpected warmth of pre-spring weather.
I do not ride Polar Bear season because I like to be cold. I think most motorcyclists would rather ride in warm than cold or hot. One exception may be Polar Bear Grand Tour Chairman Bob Hartpence who does not feel cold like most human beings. He was joking about wearing shorts on Sunday.
Sunday's weather was a treat. We started in 'pert near 40 degree weather and finished in the low 60s.
To boot, John Howard worked out a route that took us through a bit of scenic New Jersey so we did not have to make that very messy traffic light and attendant quick turn into Long Valley Brewery. I knew not where we were after we jumped off Route 80. Nonetheless, you have to trust your group leader. So we rode some two lane roads through hills and farms and sure enough, John H. signaled one last left turn and we were there.
We had five bikes, less than I expected. Generally, warm weather brings out more Polar Cubs who are on my e-mail alert list but rarely show for January rides. We get them at the beginning and end of the season, depending upon the weather. And that's fine, by the way. Dead of winter riding is not for everybody.
With Token2 in the lead and the Captain in sweep, there was naught for me to do but enjoy the ride. I must admit I am getting rather lazy about these Polar Bear outings. I used to print out directions and maps for every destination. Now I just show up for the ride, content to allow one of my GPS equipped compatriots lead me to and from our destination.
It is one of the luxuries of group riding.
While in California, delayed by snow, I rented a car for a couple days to go sightseeing in the sun while I waited for snow to stop falling back home. I figured I would see the shark, walk the stars, do the tourist thing.
Through Expedia I got a car from Budget, across the street from my hotel, for $16 a day. Figuring that was a good deal, I went ahead and rented the GPS for another $13 a day. I must say it was a positive experience. I am a bit old fashioned (or maybe slow, my Dad has a GPS), but it was the first time I spent any significant time with one of the contraptions.
Now I am contemplating one for the bike.
My bike is very retro. For gauges I have only gas and speed. No tachometer, I use my ears and butt to know when to shift. No radio. No temperature nor oil pressure gauges. A GPS will definitely damage the look. But I can see how it could be useful when touring.
Fortunately, as a Polar Bear I have a built in cadre of product testers. So once they read this blog, now that I have publicly admitted an interest, I will be able to learn from thousands of dollars of mistakes and product upgrades absorbed by my riding buddies. I will also likely get a raft of grief over finally coming around. If you have been a faithful blog reader, you know I have ridiculed my electronic pals.
Long Valley Brewery put out a beautiful brunch buffet. (Sorry, hon. I really will start that post vacation diet, maybe tomorrow.) Token2 had to teach their chef how to make a scrambled egg. And Captain got the last two benedictine eggs. All the same, I scored some goodies with a high brow/low brow breakfast strategy including smoked salmon and biscuits with gravy. John J. and I both took a slice of the cake. It was delicious, cream cheese and sugar with just enough flour cake to hold the frosting together. Coffee service was slow, but by the time we were ready for our second cup the joint was jumpin' and there was a line for sign-in.
Fonz earned his Polar Bear patch and red rocker on this ride. Welcome to the Polar Bear Club! You will have to get a special CTPB patch from our Sargent at Arms, Grumpy.
We walked outside and Token2 used a miniature tripod to take the group photo. Unfortunately we've lost Grumpy to night shift.
Once we were back in line and headed out, Token2 had his left turn signal on, waiting, waiting, waiting for a gap to get down the short bit to that troublesome traffic light. A word with John J. and Token reversed his signals. We took a right and snuck back out the way we came, over hills and dales to Route 80.
At Chez GSP Fonz and I had a side conversation going about the Rider Education Program. We shared some of our best teaching stories. Classes start soon. It was sort of “the blind leading the blind” because neither of us made our site manager's update meeting. Pogy called in from Korea to say we should not look for him at the Darien rest stop this Sunday.
I shared the good news with Fonz that we were switching to an all combination lock system. This will save Fonz a lot of time in doubling back to the site to return the keys he forgot to put in the briefcase when he handed it over to Pogy for the next instructor. Now if we can just figure out who disappeared the DVD!
Pogy is literally circling the world this trip. He started in Japan, was calling me from Korea and is next on to India. Hopefully we will see him again in a week or two when he's done wrangling helicopters.
Fonz and I were interrupted by a more boisterous conversation at the other end of the table. We had to throw some water on the Captain to cool him down. Seems he was watching Fox News again and talking politics.
Yeah, I know, we're never going to retire, all the money will be gone or useless, and health care is going to bankrupt the treasury one way or the other. Hey, I figure that's all the more reason to get in as many good rides as we can before it all comes crashing down.
Man has been predicting the end of the world ever since he first figured out that he, too, was going to die someday. From that wellspring all religion flows.
On I-287 on the way back I hit a serious pothole. I didn't lose any tooth fillings or wheel spokes, but my EZ Pass popped off the windshield. I saw it disappear in a flash, but did not see it skittering along the highway. It was just before we move over to exit to the Merritt Parkway. Come to think about it, right about the same place Grumpy's transponder bounced. I saw his spin off to the shoulder and recovered it for him.
No such luck for me!
I looked around me thinking maybe it was caught on a saddlebag mount or niche around the engine. Nope.
As we merge onto the Merritt Parkway there is a very tight, descending radius, on-ramp. I generally get quite a bit of lean going so I can keep my speed up to launch onto the Parkway.
We rode for home, this one and that one gradually peeling off for his own house. I pulled off in Stratford, rode down to the gas station to fill the tank to the very top to minimize gas tank condensation. As I stood up, my EZ Pass magically reappeared on my seat. I guess somehow when it popped off I unknowingly caught it in my crotch. Even more amazing to me, it stayed right there as I shifted position and leaned the bike for a half hour.
There is something amazing on most every ride. See you next Sunday . . . if the Captain and Glen Beck are wrong and Sunday comes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)