Motorcycle Trip Report

West Coast Loop, Part 4 ... September 1994

Day 6

Mt. Shasta to South Lake Tahoe, CA
254 miles

According to the New Age believers who have flocked to Mt. Shasta, the mountain radiates healing energy. Well, I sure could have used some of it last night -- people were snoring in my hostel room, so I stayed awake only to focus on my asthma. By morning, I was thoroughly wiped, and only managed to catch a couple of hours of sleep. Ugh.

But nonetheless, I soldiered on. I zipped out of town without bothering to check out officially, and soon I was on CA 89 headed east toward Mt. Lassen. The scenery, like yesterday's, was OK but not exactly awe-inspiring, though Shasta continued to be visible in my mirrors for about the first 80 miles. This is a high, lonely plateau, covered with a mixture of trees and sagebrush. The riding, too, was OK. At least it kept my mind off my inability to breathe. Overall the highlight of this stretch occurred about 20 miles before Susanville, when the Seca turned over 10,000 miles and a big piece of resale value landed with a "clunk" on the highway.

At Susanville it was all I could do to stagger to the cashier to pay for my gas. But once underway, I somehow started to feel better. The temperature was now in the mid-80s (after being in the mid-50s at Mt. Shasta) and the road south, US 395, was jammed with people headed to and from Reno. Eventually it became a freeway, on which I crossed into Nevada. The first thing I saw was a clump of casinos built right up to the state line. The second thing I saw was a huge alkali flat. There you have Nevada in a nutshell.

I was expecting to zip through Reno to Carson City on the 395 freeway, but unfortunately the section south of Reno hasn't been built yet, and traffic was detoured onto a congested, ugly commercial strip, which, however, dissipated after the first few miles. The only thing remarkable about this part of the ride was the weather : it had become unaccountably cloudy and rather muggy, and the sky over toward Lake Tahoe looked almost threatening. At Carson I glimpsed the state capitol surrounded, of course, by casinos) and picked up some cash at an ATM. Then I took US 50 west over a 7,500-foot pass to Lake Tahoe. The sky was cloudy, the air was humid, I felt shitty, and I was running low on fuel, but I have to admit, the ride was still pretty nice, and the lake's status as a tourist attraction is well deserved. At least it didn't rain.

Finally, I rode through Stateline, crossed into California just inches past the last casino, and found good old Motel 6. And here's what I did during my brief stay in northern California's most exciting and scenic vacation playground: Lounged around in my room, ate (delivered) pizza, and watched HBO movies. Hey -- what's a vacation for, anyway?

Day 7

South Lake Tahoe to Hollywood, CA
481 miles

At sunrise it was a chilly 45F. So naturally, I took my time getting ready, and pushed off around 10 am. Once again I was leaving town ahead of a seismic jolt -- a week after my visit, a 6.3 quake and 5.3 aftershock rocked the region. Blissfully unaware of my seeming ability to attract tremors (note: the Northridge quake occurred a month after I moved to L.A.!), I headed west on US 50 then south on CA 89 toward tiny, remote, and aptly named Alpine County, which is cut off from California on three sides by mountain passes closed half the year (and thus wants to join Nevada). A couple of 7,500-foot passes later, I found myself in the microscopic (pop. 165) town of Markleeville, which is the county seat. Here I enjoyed another humongous breakfast, at the Shady Lady cafe. There was another moto-tourer having breakfast there, but he 'fessed up to having had his bike transported up part of the way from Palm Springs, so it was with more than a little smugness at my iron-buttedness that I continued on my way.

Outside Markleeville, the road ran along a river through gorgeous Alpine scenery. As I waited to turn left for the ascent up Monitor Pass, an FZR coming the other direction motioned me to go ahead. So with him/her in hot pursuit, I zipped up the highly entertaining road, ever upward through thinning trees (quaking aspens already turning yellow) and finally sub-Arctic vegetaion to 8,000 feet. Then, naturally, came the rolling roadblock of a series of RVs. (Digression: why get away from it all, only to take it all with you?) The FZR put up with the irritation for a few minutes, then passed the entire convoy on a double yellow line. Being a timid sort, I waited till a (very brief) passing zone presented itself before making my move, which took longer than I thought due to the Yamaha's panting in the thin air. The road crested the pass at 8,320 feet, then presented a spectacular panorama as it descended through constant twisties toward the valley floor 3,000 feet below. At one particularly awe-inspiring overlook, Mr. (or Ms. -- the person had long hair) FZR pulled over. However, a few minutes later Squid (as I had by now imaginatively renamed the FZR rider) was passing me again.

At the bottom of the pass, US 89 rejoined US 395 just barely inside California. The very first "Adopt-a-Highway" sign I saw as I turned south on US 395 was sponsored by the John Birch Society, a fact which impelled me to keep my speed up through this stretch. Way up. Here, too, after a pleasantly cool start, and despite the altitude (still around 6,000 feet), it was starting to become unpleasantly hot, as the previous day's cloudiness had disappeared. So despite the still-heavy traffic (this was the day after Labor Day), I kept up a pretty good pace over a series of 7,500- and 8,000-foot passes through the town of Bridgeport, after which I could plainly see the glaciered ramparts of Yosemite looming over fertile, emerald-green fields. Meanwhile, Squid was exhibiting more and more squid-like behavior. He/she would get stuck behind a bunch of cars, patiently cruise along at 45 mph while checking out the scenery, then suddenly decide in the middle of a twisty, no-passing zone to pass them all. Once Squid even passed a convoy on the right. Oddly, Squid never got more than a few miles ahead of me.

On behalf of all Southern California residents, I'd like to apologize for what I saw next. After climbing up yet another 7,500-foot pass, US 395 provided a sweeping vista of the Owens Valley with its centerpiece, Mono Lake, a half-full basin surrounded by natural limestone pinnacles, which would be all-full if we L.A.-ites didn't insist on diverting all the feeder streams.

Luckily, I didn't have to endure this guilt very long, because soon I was in the town of Lee Vining, gateway to Yosemite. After a gas-up (during which Squid cruised past) and a Coke, I turned right on Tioga Road for the ascent into (well, OK, a bit closer to) the stratosphere. As the road climbed and climbed, I searched for words to describe the grandeur before me. Here they are: Holy fuckin' shit! Tioga Road (CA 120) clings to granite cliffs halfway between 13,000-foot peaks and rivers rushing far below, which are interspersed with gorgeous lakes. This was, by far, the most stupendous scenery of the entire trip thus far. And this stretch of road was only about 10 miles long, because once I reached the top, stopping at the entrance to the Park to pay the usual $3 fee, the road leveled out and the grand vistas of the eastern ascent were hidden.

Tioga Pass, by the way, lies at 9,945 feet and is the highest road point in California. And the Seca made sure I knew it, stalling out not once, but twice as I stood in line to enter Yosemite and then again later as I negotiated some road construction. After the Pass, the road descends a bit into the Tuolumne Meadows area, but this was a slight disappointment. I expected maybe fertile green meadows surrounded by lofty granite peaks a la "Sound of Music," but the grass was all brown and the peaks weren't all that lofty, at least compared to the 8,000-foot level of the meadows. And what's more, the park was jammed with people. The traffic was constant, and every promising overlook was thronged with visitors. What a drag. Still, the ride was eminently worth it, even though I might advise anyone passing through on US 395 toward, say, Death Valley to skip the Park and just go up and down the east access road a few times.

Tioga Road continued its gradual descent, passing a number of lakes, and entered a fragrant sequoia forest interspersed with fields of granite boulders and occasional burn areas (the National Park Service has begun setting prescribed burns here, to avoid catastrophes such as the 1988 fires in Yellowstone, which I had the good fortune to view). The road approached Yosemite Valley along a ledge looking out over hundreds of miles of untouched forest -- a rarity in the West, found only in National Parks. Upon descending to the 4,500-foot level through a couple of tunnels, I faced the decision of whether to head into Yosemite Valley proper. The view of it on the way was surely tantalizing, but in the end I decided to head south on CA 41 toward Fresno and hope for good views.

And I wasn't disappointed. Just before another tunnel, I glanced around and saw an amazing panorama of the entire valley, with all its well-known landmarks: El Capitan, Half Dome, Yosemite Falls. Well, I guess I saw Yosemite Falls... there was no water in them, so I couldn't exactly tell where they usually are. At this scenic overlook -- crowded, of course -- I dismounted and aimed my camera back toward the valley, which is like a granite riverbed on a gargantuan scale (because that's exactly what it is -- an enormous glacial scour zone). And wouldn't you know it, the damned thing wouldn't work. Replaced the batteries -- nothing. Oh well, at least I'll always have the memories *sigh*.

As I pointed my bars toward that tunnel, I suddenly had a feeling that the exciting part of the trip was behind me. Turns out I was right. The road through the rest of the park was pleasant enough, but one soon gets tired of sequoias, as pretty as they may be. Especially if you're stuck behind an idiot in a Dodge Shadow (or something) who negotiates straightaways at 50 mph and curves at 10 mph. This torment lasted all the way through the park, till finally the pinhead pulled into a gas station. Once this annoyance was over, the road (CA 41) south of Yosemite was actually pretty fun. It descended gradually through numerous high-speed sweepers and a few twisties (someday I'll have to try it again on the way up). By the time I got to Oakhurst, it straightened out and suddenly it was very hot. A few miles later, at Coarsegold, I got gas (noticing that my mileage, despite the high altitude, was up to 59 mpg!) and finalized my decision to push on home instead of spend my planned night in Fresno. Sure, it was another 230 miles... then again, you must understand that I've already stayed in Fresno more than enough times.

After this stop, the rolling hills, oak-and-chaparral vegetation, and above all the 100+F heat transported me to the Texas hill country, which this part of Madera County greatly resembles. Toward Fresno, the hills flattened out, the road straightened and became a freeway, and the heat intensified. So without any further ado I stuck the tach on 5500 (75 mph) and pointed myself on the 99 Freeway toward home.

The Central Valley is a fascinating place, if you're really into agriculture. Dozens of crops grow here, and I'm sure I could have constructed a fabulous salad from what lay in the fields, but I was (a) hot, (b) tired, and (c) still unable to breathe properly. Exciting highlights of this stretch: a sign showed it was still 100F at 6 p.m.; a cager with a precariously tied-on load threw a still-full beer can out the window, which cartwheeled down the road and nearly soaked me; and around Visalia I stomped down on the right footpeg and noticed that it felt weird, sort of spongy. At Bakersfield I stopped to investigate (and also to get gas, one last time), and discovered that not one, but two retaining bolts for the right footpeg assembly were GONE. Great -- just 120 miles from home. But I decided to press on anyway, since there was still one massive bolt holding it all on, and thus broke another of the cardinal rules of motorcycling.

By now it was getting dark. I had anticipated sunset around 8 p.m., but it actually set closer to 7:10 and I had only a tinted faceshield. So as I headed south, rejoining I-5 for the ride over the Tejon Pass, I had to flip it up and endure the 70 mph blast sans faceshield. Good thing I wear glasses. At 8:30 I gratefully left the freeway for the remaining few blocks, only to be greeted by a 40-foot high fountain jetting from a vandalized temporary connection (they're relining culverts throughout my neighborhood; we've already lost water 3 times due to vandals), and so, perhaps to compensate for staying dry the entire trip, I got a good soaking just before coming to a final stop.

Postscript: That night I had to go to the ER again, as the asthma persisted. Now I'm back (almost) to normal, waiting for the next stupid decision from my boss, the next earthquake, and especially my next vacation (I'm thinking about Montana...)

Thanks for reading!

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