Words and Photos By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)
“Recently there have been numerous sightings of a hairy, human-like creature known as Bigfoot or Sasquatch. Bigfoot country includes the California Redwoods and the forests near Willow Creek, California. There have been numerous sightings near Mount St. Helens, Washington and other areas of the Pacific Northwest. A male Bigfoot has a muscular build and averages about nine feet in height. Although some sightings have been proven to be hoaxes, many have been reported by credible persons such as a deputy sheriff, military officer and forest ranger. Some people believe Bigfoot to be a space alien who travels to Earth in a flying saucer to spy on us Earthlings. However, until a Bigfoot is captured there will be doubts about his actual existence. Meanwhile the legend of Bigfoot leaves a fascinating trail of folklore to us all.” –The Legend of Bigfoot
Monday, October 23
It Doesn’t Shift Itself
The state of California from one thousand miles above. Black lines, blue lines, green lines and grey lines. Straight lines, curvy lines, dotted lines and white lines. Big cities, small cities, ghost towns and cow towns. Rich folks, poor folks, straight folks and queer folks. Where to go, where to go? Ten days and a gas-card, a motel budget and cash in my pocket. Tahoe? Yosemite? Death Valley? Eureka? Eureka! Straight up the Pacific Coast to revisit those roads left unturned on CW’s “Grand Tour” when my thousand-dollar bike died a slow death on the 299.
This time however, my companion is a Yamaha FJR1300 courtesy of Cycle World’s elite Long-Term Fleet. A fully loaded road-warrior with enough bells and whistles to make a circus-carnie jealous. Adjustable suspension, shaft-drive, center stand, electronically-adjustable windscreen, adjustable headlights, heated handgrips, cruise control, 12-Volt power for phone or laptop and spacious hard bags and trunk. The only thing missing? A clutch.
Eccentricities of a clutch-less transmission seem odd at first but benefits soon outweigh previous suspicions. Except for occasional throttle-lag while engine spools up, waiting for gears to mesh. All shifts up with neutral at bottom. What a concept. Surprisingly, clutchless braking is not a problem as gears automatically disengage at idle and re-engage with throttle. A serious problem, for me at least, in low-speed switchbacks. Missing clutch also requires disciplined throttle-blipping. No showing off at stop-lights unless you’re in Neutral. Once under way the FJR pulls strongly from any speed with an enormous powerband and endless torque.
Cycle World Assistant Hooligan Mark Cernicky needs to put miles on a Suzuki GSXR1000 and aware of my search for Bigfoot, suggests leap-frogging to ‘Frisco. “I sponsor if we leave today,” he bargains, suggesting we stay with his old pal Aaron in Olema before he blasts down Interstate Five to San Diego for a press-intro in 48 hours. After lunch we depart at 2:00 and scramble up Highway One to Pismo. Darkness and fog stops us at Shell Beach and after Mark checks us into a room at The Palomino we walk to Alex’s Bar for ribs and burgers. He suggests trail braking to keep revs up in those tight corners, but I’m not Mark Cernicky and the FJR is no KTM. Did I mention condition of rear tire?
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
The Dragon’s Lair
Steadily up California’s rugged coastline, ignoring spectacular photo-ops and planned diversions. Cernicky is rabbit to my greyhound and he’s on a tight schedule. Skirting Monterey rush hour but not San Francisco’s over the Golden Gate to San Rafael, wrestling the FJR through the freakishly tight hairpins of Drakes Bay. Mark develops a leak in his rear (ba-dump-a-dump) but fills it with Fix-a-Flat and after a few wrong turns and a thousand rough corners we eventually make it to Aaron’s at dusk. “You made it,” says Mark, to both our surprise.
Aaron and Mark are truly birds of a feather. Living on the edge and dancing on the redline. After a wild ride in Aaron’s Mitsubishi Evo 9, Mark regales us at dinner downtown with the horrowing tale of a kidney-stone the size of a golf ball. Another wild ride through Olema backstreets, one hand against the roof while the other feels desperately for a seatbelt. With Aaron behind the wheel a twenty-minute drive takes maybe three. A cocktail takes the edge off and John Frankenheimer’s three-hour epic “Grand Prix” puts me to sleep.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Alone on Highway One
Mark quickly plugs his leak and leaves for San Diego. He’s graciously sponsored me as promised, but when he turns South, I head North. No longer on Cernicky-Time and alone at last on the uninhabited Point Reyes National Seashore. The tide rhythmically slaps the road’s shoulder at sea level while sinking piers shelter forgotten boats. The only signs of enterprise an occasional Oyster Bar. I have this protected shoreline all to myself, but the quarter-tank of gas I left Aaron’s with is now a blinking-eighth. Twenty miles later a Chevron materializes in Bodega Bay and I’ve never been happier to pay three dollars a gallon.
With a full tank and a light heart I enter the 116 North. Nice road, but peppered with seeds of urban progress. Daydreaming through one small town after another at 35mph. Thinking of nicknames for the FJR. (When traveling alone, you may yourself doing this, too) Cruise ship? Cruise Missile? Road Warrior? Battleship? Battleship Galactica? Battlestar Galactica? Galactica? Galactica.
Slingshotting up the 101 to 128 West treading lonely asphalt fifty miles back to Highway One to Fort Bragg where I settle in with free cable. A guilty pleasure enjoyed only when away from home.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Welcome to Bigfoot Country
Galactica cleans up easily as I wipe a towel over her angular, but pleasing Japanese bodywork. From The One I take the 101 into Humboldt’s Bigfoot country. Hypnotically tracing reflective double-yellows, avoiding oncoming logging trucks barreling through at break-neck speeds. Dense canopy of fern providing shade to these giant redwoods older than Jesus and large enough to drive through. And I do. Eventually stopping in Eureka to celebrate with a bottle of Port and dinner from QuickieMart. A spooky town, Eureka is the Humboldt equivalent of Orange County. An alternate universe where mentally-ill share coffee with relative-sane. Local dress-code? Matted hair, dirty face and muddy boots. Luckily I fit right in.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Plop, plop, fizz, fizz
The 101, carries me to Highway 299 East, but when an odd rumbling in my belly becomes a four-alarm fire, I pull over in a panic at first available turnout. Must have been the non-dairy creamer. Or maybe the Port. Leaping over the gravel shoulder, dropping trousers in mid-air and landing in full-squat at the bottom of a steep hillside, catastrophe narrowly averted and thankful for the privacy. When I look up, there he is. Bigfoot. Just kidding.
Somewhere in the blur of ejection, my key has gone missing but the anal-retentive adventurer always brings a spare. (Maybe two.) With tummy still churning, I ride warily along Trinity River to the one-block Mainstreet of Weaverville where I take a quiet room at The Red Hill Motel to recuperate. The body has a clever way of getting your attention and sometimes you better listen. Especially in Bigfoot country. But Weaverville has its charm as the motel’s brochure explains.
“Weaverville, while known for its scenic beauty and recreational treasures, is equally appealing for its rich historical beginnings. Picturesquely nestled in a basin surrounded by snow-capped mountains, Weaverville represents one of the few remaining frontiers in California and maintains a small-town quality of life that is rapidly slipping away from many parts of the Golden State.”
Amen.
The brochure goes on to describe Weaverville’s humble origins. Three enterprising men built a cabin. John Weaver, James Howe and Daniel Bennet. Upon completion, they drew straws to choose the town name and the rest is history.
With a calmer tummy, I walk down to a rustic bookstore where the unofficial welcoming committee invite me to a reading of Shakespeare later tonight. After checking email on a borrowed laptop I walk over to the Saloon and meet Craig, the bartender.
“Stop me if you’ve heard this one,” he offers. “An atheist is walking in the woods and sees Bigfoot and yells “God save me!” A voice from above answers, “I thought Thou did not believe in Me.” “I didn’t believe in Bigfoot two seconds ago, either!”
“I bet that plays pretty good around here,” I reply. “What did the Skeleton say to the bartender? ‘Gimme a beer and a mop!’ ”
After enjoying a cold beer and a nice breeze I take some lunch back to the Red Hill and take advantage of more free cable.
At Seven I walk back to Main Street and a couple of young Does give me a brief start in the dark. “What big eyes you have.” I whisper as they calmly watch me pass. Across the street at the Trinity Arts Council/Quilting Gallery a sinewy, seventy-something actor (“Perhaps you saw me in Stalag Seventeen?”) delivers a highly charged but lispy reading of Macbeth and Richard III. And a couple of bizarro impressions of Cary Grant and Richard Mason.
At intermission I sneak back to the Saloon for more lively entertainment.
Saturday, October 29, 2006
Long night on the Lost Coast
I briefly consider making time on Interstate 5, but with nowhere to be, choose Highway 3. Galactica settles in nicely for these fun Second and Third gear sweepers despite the hard rear tire. One hundred miles back to the 101 searching for a hidden town called Ferndale at the head of the “Lost Coast Road.” An infamous, but rarely traveled stretch of rugged coastline unkind to twenty-ton fuel-trucks. Like other protected areas, gas is a rare commodity and thanks to other tree-huggers, there’s no chance for gas in bucolic Ferndale either.
After a rare break for a nice lunch (FJR top-case has served as portable kitchen) and impressed with town so far, I follow my instincts and check into the dainty Francis Creek Inn. Why stop here? I’ll let a postcard explain.
“Settled in 1852 by dairymen and ranchers from many countries. Shops, restaurants, antiques, museums, inns and galleries in a Victorian architectural setting near hills, redwoods and ocean.”
I walk down Main Street and purchase a Kaleidoscope from a blacksmith then visit the absolute western-most bar in the continental U.S. “The Palace” is 150 years old and next door to the Ivanhoe Motel. The absolute, western-most motel in the continental U.S. After spinning John Lee Hooker on the Juke and playing shuffleboard alone, I decide to come back later for an advertised Halloween party. Too bad I only have one costume.
Dressed like a Suicide Girl, Rindy is a charming little firecracker. “What’s your name?” she asks, sidling next to me like old friends. “What’s your phone number?” she asks confidently. “I’m only passing through,” I answer. Forgetting the power of such an answer.
Sunday, October 30, 2006
Flirting With Disaster
It’s noon when I finally get on the road but an empty tank and a hollow thump from the rear tire convinces me to save The Lost Coast road for another day and I return to the 101. Violent speed bumps engineered for sleepy truckers are constant reminder of thin rubber and over-ballast. These massive rifts in the asphalt may be perfect for eighteen-wheelers, but they’re hell on two and I avoid them at all cost while eating miles to Fort Bragg. Leaves continue displaying brilliant fall colors providing a colorful backdrop for the camera-friendly FJR. But words and photos fall short of describing exhilaration of this kind. If you’ve been there, you know what I mean. If not, you need to get out more.
Monday, October 30, 2006
The Long Way Home
Days are short, but the miles are long. The generous information provided by the instrument-panel provides time, gear, ambient temp and status of fuel. The trip-odometer is approaching two thousand miles and all of them winding. Successfully avoiding Interstate, I’ve found no use for the FJR’s cruise-control but taken full advantage of the adjustable windscreen and heated handgrips.
Highway 20 to the 101, back to 20, south to 29. Fantastic roads relatively free of traffic until jarred by the roiling, claustrophobic hairpins of Robert Louis Stevenson State Park. Opening up finally into the lush agricultural region of Napa all the way to the high-society of Walnut Creek, across the bay from San Francisco.
I enjoy sushi downtown, but it’s Monday night and Walnut Creek is already fast asleep. After more free cable, so am I.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Girls Gone Wild
With a crepe to go from Crepes-A-Go-Go I tuck in at ninety on the 680 South with a long train of juiced commuters hot on my heels in the diamond-lane. In San Jose, 680 becomes 101 and lifeless concrete morphs slowly into golden farmland. A quick detour on 156 takes me to Hollister to pay respects, then back on the 101 to Paso Robles where I stop at Brown’s Cycles for a new tire. And none too soon.
Without hesitation Joe Brown’s son David quickly reshods Galactica’s rear and invites me to explore the property. David is one of three brothers, all inheriting the racing-gene. Brown’s Cycles was established by his Grandfather Joe Senior in 1940 as a Jawa dealership. Another racer, he passed on the shop to his son Joe Junior, who made regular appearances in bike mags of the day including Cycle News and Cycle World. Joe kept up the tradition of sponsoring local racers that continues today. Behind the shop forgotten remains of hundreds of bikes in various states of decomposition die a slow death in a motorcycle graveyard. The result of 66 years in business. David claims little value in these empty husks but it’s a great photo-op and I take advantage of the access. In only half an hour, the work is done and I’m back on the 101.
With fresh rubber, Galactica’s a completely different animal. Now more star-fighter than mother-ship, I re-christen her Starbuck.
Much too soon I’m in San Luis Obispo enjoying a hotdog at Famous Frank’s. Another upscale University town, Cal-Poly is just around the corner. Pedestrian-friendly and bulging with lodging, bars, restaurants and well-mannered college-kids. I take a room in the Peachtree Inn at the top of the hill. A long walk or short ride down Monterey Street to the night’s Halloween festivities.
“I like your costume!” exclaims Kelly outside the door of Bull Tavern. “But put that bandanna on your head. Now you really look like a biker.” She’s wearing a revealing maid costume and it looks pretty good on her. But aside from Kelly it’s a Testical Festival at the Bull and after a quick beer I walk down the street to McCarthys where the possibilities are more promising. A bevy of college girls in sexy costumes, pulling it off while they can. And they should. I pull up next to an old guy that’s a dead-ringer for Grandpa Walton. But it’s no costume. He’s Seventy and has been coming to S.L.O. for more than thirty years. To my left a well blessed brunette in another maid costume is happily tanked and displaying her assets to anyone interested in a free-show. I point this out to Grandpa but he can’t look at that stuff anymore and his eyes sadly tell me why.
I walk the crowded streets enjoying a surreal parade of drunken twenty-somethings, but a glance at my watch informs me that I just turned Forty. Funny, I only feel Thirty. Out of my element and much too sober I ride up the hill to the Peachtree and catch up on current events with Comedy Central.
Wednesday, November 1, 2006
Life Begins at Forty
Self-proclaimed Adventurer Ed Brown introduces himself at the Peachtree’s generous continental breakfast. “Are you on the Yamaha?” he asks. “How do you like it? Where you headed?” And all the other usual questions. He shows me photos of a yacht he purchased and sailed back from New Zealand, a small-plane he restored and pilots around Illinois and Nevada’s Highway 50, his regular route to California. Ed emphatically suggests I take Highway 58, rather than 166 as planned. I take his word for it and backtrack up the 101 about eight miles to do so but a half hour later a worm-hole delivers me back to the 101 in Atascadero, fifty miles North. The map offers no explanation and there goes a gallon of gas I’ll never get back. I return to S.L.O. and take my own advice with the 166.
As far as I the eye can see nothing but happy cows and rolling farmland. Enough open-range to make Ben Cartwright jealous and I happily whistle the Bonanza theme enjoying the confidence of a new rear tire. Riding through a small Twister that magically appears in my path delivers a brief rush but otherwise nothing new to report.
Desolation, thy name is New Cuyama. After filling up in Maricopa I enter the nicely-paved and beautifully maintained Highway 33 enjoying this fine road all to myself. I could make it home late tonight, but the gauntlet through L.A. rush-hour is less-than-appealing and there remain a few more roads to explore off the beaten path.
I check in to the cozy Rancho Inn in Ojai and ride to town for birthday-dinner, alone and by design. Preferring to roll into Forty under the radar. Mama suggested I take advantage of a free dessert somewhere, so I get a table at Carrows. The oppressive volume of overlapping conversations and an unappealing family-restaurant vibe convinces me to leave before ordering. Disappointed by lack of options I stop in Los Caporales for an exceptional taco/enchilada combo washed down with ice-cold Tecate. It’s pretty darn good, but there’s no pulse on Main at this hour and I watch National Lampoon’s Vacation back at the cabin. The Griswolds make it to Wally World and I restlessly go back downtown to see about that free dessert.
At The Hub a charmingly-stoned Olive Oil provides a drunken rendition of The Birthday Song and the bartender promises a round on her, but it’s otherwise depressing and I walk next door to endure karaoke at the wine-bar Movino’s. Enjoying a fine Cabernet, a motley collection of American Idol rejects provide a painful soundtrack until last-call at Ten o’clock. There’s nothing worth stirring up in this schizophrenic town and I return to The Rancho and enjoy more free-cable. But where’s my hot-fudge sundae?
Thursday, November 2, 2006
Return to Orange County
After sharing coffee with a couple of mares next door, Starbuck and I enjoy the sweeping well-paved curves of 150 and 126 in no hurry to go home. At Fillmore, Starbuck and I take the 23 South through more fertile valley and light traffic. Despite over-ballast, she sticks to the road like a steamroller and with steering provided by fresh rubber twisties are much more forgiving.
After kissing the 101 in Thousand Oaks, we hop back on the wild ride guaranteed by Highway 23, which eventually drops us off squarely at Highway One in Malibu. Thirty miles of L.A. beaches to the 10 East and access to the 405 Freeway’s diamond-lane, ninety miles per hour the final stretch to Orange County.
Welcome to Southern California. The land of arrested development, perpetual indulgence, over-population and urban sprawl. Beautiful people, wasteful extravagance, million-dollar condos and GMC Hummers. The American Dream on steroids.
Thank God for Bigfoot country.
