Motorcycle Trip Report

West Coast Loop, Part 2 ... September 1994

Day 2

Morro Bay to Foster City, CA
243 miles

After a day and a half in peaceful Morro Bay, where my activity consisted mainly of getting a sunburn, I geared up on a Sunday morning for the assault on Big Sur. The temperature was a chilly 61F, but the sun was shining and the fogbank was well offshore when I pulled onto Highway 1 northbound. For the first twenty miles or so, there was no traffic, and the riding was glorious. However, just when the road narrowed to two lanes, I encountered the expected caravans of RVs (sorry) and resigned myself to a slow trip. I was also expecting to see lots of motorcycles, since the California Ride of the Padres (CROP) was winding up that very day at Paso Robles, a few miles inland, but for some reason no one decided to take the scenic route north.

Though the traffic was heavy, I must report that most of it was at least matching posted limits. Past San Simeon the road hugged the shoreline and then ascended a high bluff, the first of many on today's route. I got waved to by a *bicyclist* ... something about the solidarity of the two-wheeled, I suppose. At Raggedy Point I dismounted to take my first of many photos that day. Typical Central Coast scenery: high mountains inland, tapering to lower cliffs flinging themselves into the incredibly blue Pacific.

A few miles later, at Gorda, I pulled into a BP station to fill up, and saw that the price of gas was $1.19. Cool, thought I. Then I took a closer look and saw that the price was actually $2.119. That's right, over two bucks a gallon. Never I have been more grateful that my vehicle isn't, say, a Lincoln Town Car. While I was filling up, I heard a loud crash, and looked over to see a large Harloid lying on its side. Its owner, with help from two others, got it upright and eventually rode off, and I did the same once I was done spitting out the piece of my tongue that I'd bitten off.

Six miles and a couple of photo-ops later, I pulled inland on Nacimento (sp?) Road to get a better overview of the scenery. This is an excellent, uncrowded spot -- not many drivers seem willing to venture 0.1 mi. up a dirt road. NOTE to off-roaders -- according to posted signs, the road actually connects with the 101, through some totally wild country. But soon me and my ordinary street bike were back on the main line.

Near Big Sur (town of), the road entered a redwood forest, the official beginning of Northern California. After a while, the trees ended, and soon I discovered why: the constant, howling wind. It was blowing at least 30 mph as I struggled up the coast to Carmel. Once I got there, the wind tapered off, to be replaced by clogged traffic. Eventually the road became a freeway, and I transited windy and tourist-choked Monterey with the greatest of ease.

Highway 1 then brought me to Santa Cruz, one of the totally coolest towns in California. I rode around town a bit, checking out the downtown area with its remaining damage from the '89 quake, then saw a bunch of bikes parked outside a bookstore, of all places. Turns out to have been the local chapter of Dykes on Bikes. Though I doubt they were overjoyed to see me, I dismounted anyway and asked directions to the university, which would have been a nice place to hang out & have a snack. But it became clear that it would have been too much of a detour, so instead I gassed up, encouraging the gas-station attendant to follow up her dream of getting a bike, and headed up the 17 freeway to my next objective: Alice's Restaurant.

My map, a pretty shabby piece of work by the Compass Map Company, showed a connection between CA 17 and Skyline Blvd. (CA 35), which would been lots of fun & taken me directly to Alice's. But there was no sign of a Skyline exit, so I wound up going all the way to San Jose and traveling up the 280 ("The World's Most Beautiful Freeway") to CA 84, which was a fun, twisty road unfortunately encumbered with loads of cage traffic and quite a few bikes.

I pulled into Alice's parking lot, right next to an identical Seca II, and after a brief hat with its owner went in search of a cup of coffee. A Celtic band was playing to a fairly sparse crowd (it was already about 4 pm), and I sat and enjoyed their playing and the overall scene. But I had little time to linger, since I'd promised to meet up with my friend Adam at his SO's place in Foster City. So I headed north on Skyline Drive, pursued by a local moto rider undoubtedly irked by my relatively slow (45 mph) pace, which was soon justified when I spotted a county-mountie lurking by the side of the road.

It was still sunny, but the cloud layer from the Pacific was already starting to come over the crest of the mountains. You could almost reach up and touch the wisps of mist as they blew across the road. Overall, an enchantingly beautiful ride, which ended all too soon at the intersection with Hwy. 92. After a precipitous descent into the basin formed by the San Andreas Fault (reservoir and all...), CA 92 became a freeway which soon deposited me in Foster City, and after blundering in a nondescript residential neighborhood for a while, I found Adam, whom I hadn't seen in about five years. There followed an exciting evening of eating Boboli pizza, watching his SO fix some locks, and watching "Total Recall" on video. And that, folks, was my big evening in the Bay Area.

Day 3

Foster City to Klamath, CA
385 miles

My plan was to get up early, when Adam went to work at 8:00, and then ride into San Francisco for breakfast. But he didn't stir until about 10:00, and being a government employee, didn't have to worry about rushing into work (comp time, he told me). So it wasn't until 11:15 that I finally pulled onto the 101 for the brief ride into the City.

The first thing that struck me was how such a beautiful city could have such an ugly freeway in it. It seems like every time I'm in S.F. there's major road construction going on, and the trip was anything but pleasant. Then I exited onto Fell St., and the second thing that struck me was the large number of motorcycles around, obviously in much greater proportion than in L.A. I made my way past the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park, then up to Geary Blvd. where I soon found Mel's Diner, my intended breakfast spot. I ordered the Lumberjack's Breakfast (how butch!) which consisted of three pancakes, three eggs, a HUGE ham steak, and a mess of potatoes, all for about $6.75. Such a deal.

After gorging at Mel's Diner, I headed over the Golden Gate Bridge, which was, as usual, shrouded in fog, though the morning thus far had been entirely cloudless. I got a tourist from Germany (aren't they all?) to take my picture with the bridge in the background, then zipped up the 101 freeway into Sonoma County.

Here I was faced with another routing decision. I had thought about taking CA 116 to the coast through the Russian River area, just to see what it was like, but after the previous day, I wanted to be warm for a while longer, so I compromised and headed north, through Santa Rosa, and got on CA 128 headed up towards Boonville and Mendocino. To make a long story short, this road was moto heaven. Lots of twisties, both ascending and descending, and best of all, the locals are well trained and actually pull off to let faster vehicles pass. When three cars did this within about 4 minutes, I was absolutely amazed. Plus, the scenery, a mix of rolling farmland and forest-lined creeks, is outstanding. Why this isn't marked as an official "scenic route" is beyond me, but if that means less traffic, then thank you, Rand McNally.

In Boonville I stopped for gas, then passed the "Horn of Zeese" cafe, "horn of zeese" being the local term for "cup of coffee" (don't ask). After Boonville, the road joined a redwood-lined river for the run to the coast. The amazing thing about this river was that it actually had water in it -- what a concept! And I had plenty of time to observe it, since there was a numbskull in a Subaru Justy blocking my path. I also glimpsed a pair of very ratty-looking hitchhikers, who would not have been out of place panhandling on Hollywood Blvd., in the middle of nowhere.

Eventually the Subaru turned off, and the road rejoined Highway 1 for the spectacular run to Mendocino. Now I was in Maine (you know, "Murder She Wrote" and all that). The road was lined with pine trees and clapboard inns, which charge ridiculous prices to San Franciscans who want to think they're in Maine. I thought I would stop in Mendocino and have a nice espresso and maybe a pastry, and visit an ATM. But a brief ride around town convinced me that I was entirely too downscale to fit in. It seemed to consist mostly of overpriced galleries and groups of sullen teenagers whose parents had dragged them here but who would rather be playing "Mortal Kombat" or something. And what's more, there weren't any good places to park where I could keep my eye on my stuff. Nor were there any ATMs that I could find. So, I thought "fuck Mendocino" and high-tailed it out of town.

Fort Bragg is, as far as I'm concerned, the saving grace of coastal Mendocino County. It's tacky, you might even say ugly, but it's real in a way Mendocino isn't. I pulled up in front of a promising coffee shop, which unfortunately turned out to be closed, and walked a few blocks to use the ATM. When I got back to my bike, I noticed that the building I had parked in front of had a Tattoo Museum. Being a tattoo victim myself, I thought I'd go have a look. The museum, though small (two rooms), was outstanding, so if you're ever in Ft. Bragg, check it out!

As I was leaving Fort Bragg, I noticed the time: 4:10 pm. I still had 200 miles to go. So I was counting on a fast, smooth trip. It was not to be. North of Fort Bragg, the highway again hugs the wild, desolate coast, where I saw a llama paddock. Then it turns inland, and for its northernmost 25 miles, consists of nothing but back-to-back twisties through a dense redwood forest. While I welcomed the chance to practice my turning skills, by the end of 10 or so miles I was getting pretty exhausted. Finally Highway 1 came to an end, joining US 101 (again) near the town of Leggett. With gratitude I turned left on the wide, smooth four-laner.

US 101 in Mendocino and Humboldt counties is a weird road. It goes from freeway, to twisty two-laner, to poorly paved four-laner, and back to freeway. By this time it was getting pretty cold, and I was focused on just getting to Eureka (now *there's* something you don't hear too often!) to eat something and put on another layer. This is redwood country, where fully-laden log trucks compete with RVs to see which can slow down traffic more. Scenery-wise, it was all redwood forest lining the rushing Eel River, with occasional tacky redwood-related tourist attractions.

By the time I got to Eureka, I had set a personal iron-butt record: 3 hours and 130 miles without a break. Phew. Filled up, got a kielbasa, and noticed LARGE numbers of motorcycles here, in rain country. Strange. Guess it's the blue-collar nature of the community, dominated by paper mills. The sun was just barely hanging over the horizon as I set off again, northbound, into the wilds of Redwood National Park.

The first part of the drive, during dusk, was outstanding. Very little traffic, and the sun's low rays were filtered through the trees. On one straight, wide, deserted stretch, I did a little speed check & wound it up to about 95 mph (smooth as silk!) before remembering that deer and elk like to come out of the woods at this time of day to be munched by passing vehicles. So I resumed a sedate 65 mph.

Around nightfall, just as I was entering the little town of Orick, the road came down off the cliffs to skirt a beach, and suddenly I was being mercilessly pelted with little green bugs. Within about two miles I picked up several dozen of them, which necessitated a stop at a nearby gas station to scrape 'em off my faceshield. (Eewwww, said the Korean female attendant.) The strange thing is that that same beach was absolutely choked with campers. Why would they pick the buggiest place in the entire park?

At 9:15 I finally reached my destination, a motel-cum-RV-park called Camp Marigold, just north of the virtually nonexistent town of Klamath. For $35 I got a cozy cabin all to myself, and after walking around to savor the view of the starry night sky, I retired and slept like the dead.

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