Monday
It was early summer. I had been working 6 days a week and needed a few days off, but didn't have any vacation time saved up. The solution was simple: just as I had done last year at around the same time, I quit my job and lined up a new one to start about 10 days later.And so it was that on a typical gray San Francisco summer morning at the ungodly hour of 5:30, I loaded up, kicked the sidestand up, and made a beeline for the Bay Bridge. Past Fairfield the clouds lifted and the morning sun shone right into my face, heralding a great day of riding -- or at least as great as a ride on I-5 can be.
Lots of cars were heading north from the Moto GP at Laguna Seca. Right after my first gas stop in Williams, I noticed that the front end of my bike felt weird, so I pulled into the first available rest area to check my tire pressure. The pressure was fine, but I couldn't help noticing a Sentra with Washington plates, occupied by a sleeping couple and covered with painted slogans cheering on a friend of theirs who was apparently a Moto GP rider.
By the time I got to Redding at 8:45, it was time for breakfast, so I went to that old standby: the Black Bear Diner. Great food, great service, and great, uh, scenery. My plan was to blast through the Sacramento Valley before the midday heat struck, and that's just what I did. Just after Redding, the road climbs into the southern rim of the Cascade Range. I was having a great time on all those high-speed sweepers... at least until I attempted to pass a tractor-trailer on a right-hand curve, and he started drifting into me just as I passed his drive wheels. I leaned on the horn, swerved toward the median, hit the brakes, and managed to avoid catastrophe. I clicked down a couple of gears and passed him at top speed, and gave him a stern digital rebuke.
Right after that, I had to pull over to compose myself. Also, there was a nice view of Mount Shasta.
I got back on the freeway again and passed a bunch of trucks... but I couldn't remember which of them was the one that nearly killed me, so I wasn't able to make a mental note of the "how am I driving?" number so I could get the guy fired.
After one final gas stop in the high-desert town of Yreka, I slid into Oregon -- but not before putting up with several miles of road construction just before the state line, as if California were reluctant to let me leave. After a quick stop in Ashland to check my messages and make plans for later, I droned up the freeway and eventually stopped for lunch at a Subway in Roseburg. Lots of traffic and road construction all along the route, and even though the scenery was nice, the ride was something to be endured rather than enjoyed.
By the time I got to Springfield, which is just east of Eugene, I could see rain clouds on the horizon -- even though it was still hot and sunny here in the southern Willamette Valley. Then back onto the freeway and on, interminably on, into the Portland area, which I managed to hit right at rush hour. Fortunately, there's an HOV lane on I-5 all the way through North Portland, so even though Portland is one of my favorite cities ever, I was grateful that I could get through it so quickly.
By 6:00 p.m. I was well into Washington. After a water & snack stop in the dreary timber town of Kelso, I got back onto the eternal freeway. And that's when the rain started. It wasn't a heavy rain -- that doesn't often happen in the Northwest in July -- but still enough to slow me down and add to my general feeling of "what the fuck am I doing?". I did see that Sentra again, though -- the same one I had seen about 11 hours earlier way back in California. On to Olympia, and one last gas stop in a weird little suburban area (actually Tumwater) where the neat streets, plentiful conifers, and late-evening daylight reminded me oddly of Finland.
And now I just had to cover the last 70 miles to Seattle. Not much rain now, just a sky full of unseasonable drear. I finally pulled into the parking lot of my hotel at 8:25, after almost 15 hours on the road.
Two of my SF friends were in town, but they had other priorities, so after a quick solo dinner at the nearby Hurricane Café, I just went to bed. I was tired.
Total mileage, day 1 (7/6): 840 (the same distance as Chicago to Montréal).
Tuesday
After the previous day's marathon, I was ready for a nice, leisurely trip up to Vancouver. And indeed, it wasn't until about noon that the three of us -- self and the two aforementioned SF friends -- got under way. After another meal at the ever-so-convenient Hurricane Café, we got on I-5 for a short jaunt north to a point just north of Arlington, where we planned to nip over to Highway 9. After getting briefly getting lost in an exurban cul-de-sac near Bryant (thank you, TomTom GPS), we found the road and discovered, much to my surprise, that it was quite fun, except for the thickening clouds. The road sweeps and twists through tiny towns and past little lakes nestled in the Cascade foothills. Tom Robbins country. We got our last U.S. gas at Sedro Woolley and, after getting a bit turned around because of road construction, got back on Highway 9 for the run to the border.Occasional moderate rain showers accompanied us on our way north. The road flattened out a bit, through many twists and turns (one of which was missed, but fortunately not by me), and by 3:00 or so it brought us to the Sumas/Abbotsford border crossing. After a short wait, the first rider rode up to the booth. The immigration officer talked to him for a bit, took his passport, had him take off his helmet, opened up the side and top cases on his BMW, etc. And then he handed him a yellow slip of paper and told him to park and go inside.
I've crossed the Canadian border many times, and had NEVER seen anything like this happen, EVER. Rider #2 went up to the booth -- same thing. And then it was my turn. Answered the usual questions (no guns, no alcohol, etc.), then got my yellow slip, parked, and went inside. The process went something like this:
- Wait at yellow line for something to happen.
- Get waved over, rather nonchalantly, to a window manned by an immigration agent to surrender passport for a bit and answer some questions. These included, as far as I can remember:
- Where do you live?
- How long have you lived there?
- Where do you work? (I had to fudge this one a bit)
- Are you riding with those guys?
- How long have you known them?
- How do you know them?
- Where do they work? (for one of them, I actually had no idea)
- How can you be friends with someone and not know where they work?
- What do you and your friends do when you're together? ("We hang out at sleazy gay biker bars," I did not answer.)
- Go sit down in an airport-style seat for a couple of minutes
- Get waved back to a different window to answer some more questions, including:
- Where are you going?
- Where are you staying?
- How long will you be there?
- What kind of motorcycle do you ride?
- Why did you come all the way up here just for a day trip? (by this point, I was starting to wonder)
- How much money do you have?
- Do you know anyone in Canada?
- Go sit in the chair for a little while longer
- Finally get summoned to retrieve passport by a third agent, with wishes for a safe journey.
I certainly wasn't expecting the bloody Canadian Inquisition. Oh well, considering the way we Americans treat foreign visitors, I suppose it's only fair. Maybe they thought we were some new kind of Gore-Tex-clad, BMW- and V-Strom-riding gay biker gang.
As if that wasn't frustrating enough, when we tried to navigate to a nearby restaurant for lunch, we immediately got stuck in a line-up at a grade crossing. So we detoured a bit up to Highway 1, found where the restaurant was supposed to be, and discovered that it no longer existed. We lunched instead at a slightly bizarre but quite palatial establishment called Finnegan's, which is a lavishly appointed sports bar in what seemed like the middle of nowhere.
One of the menu items was called "Rock Crab Dip," and we amused ourselves for several minutes by repeating the phrase "Rock Crab Dip" to one another, carefully e-nun-ci-a-ting every consonant. Which is the sort low-grade psychosis that occasionally afflicts cold, wet motorcyclists after a long (or, in our case, a rather short) day on the road. Tried getting cash at a dodgy ATM here, but no luck, which just added to my malaise, as did my receiving a rather unpleasant phone call from my doctor during our meal (which, it must be said, was very nice indeed -- especially the Rock Crab Dip).
Then back onto rainy HIghway 1 -- which is a freeway -- for the last 70 km into Vancouver. This part of the trip was not fun at all. Lots and lots of rush-hour traffic, occasional construction, and of course rain. The GPS routed us toward the West End via Highway 7 (Hastings St.) which is about the worst introduction to Vancouver you can imagine -- although, admittedly, it's not all that different from my neighborhood in SF. It even smelled a bit like home -- the pot smoke, I mean. After I almost took a spill on some inconveniently placed mid-lane ridges in a construction zone right in the middle of downtown, we found our designated lodging. The check-in parking was located up a steep driveway partly paved with slippery wet bricks. We squished into the lobby, got our rooms, and tried to dry out. At least the view was nice.
Then drinks, dinner, drinks, and bed, with absolutely no idea how exactly I was going to get home -- besides a profound determination not to ride a single inch of I-5 if I could possibly help it.
Total mileage, day 2 (7/7): 176 (Austin to Houston).
Wednesday
I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself this showery Wednesday morning, so after a Starbucks latte & pastry and a walk around the neighborhood, I packed up, checked out, and went for a little ride around nearby Stanley Park. First stop: the totem poles.
I needed gas, but my V-Strom, as capable as it is, would not have made it over.
I finished my enjoyable little putt around Stanley Park, during which I saw a bunch of Mennonite tourists -- who knew those Mennonite farmers were so hunky? -- and proceeded onward in a vaguely U.S.-ward direction. I detoured again through Kitsilano and out past the UBC campus; just before the bridge into Richmond, I stopped for gas (C$1.07 a litre, ouch!) and got a text from one of the SF guys. So back I went into East Van to meet them for lunch at a Cubanoid restaurant imaginatively named Havana. Finally, around 1:30 I got on my trusty Strom and headed for the border.
About 30 minutes later, I saw a sign that sent chills down my spine: "BORDER WAIT TIMES / PEACE ARCH 2 HRS / PACIFIC HWY 60 MINS." No fucking way, thought I. So I TomTom'd past the mess and followed Avenue 16 toward the next crossing farther east, at Lynden. This went quite smoothly -- a 5-minute wait followed by a 2-minute confab with the border guard, who asked me to open my topcase but was otherwise not too intrusive -- and before long I was rolling into Bellingham.
I made my way through downtown Bellingham and then down to Fairhaven. Here, I stopped to drink some water and revel in the luxury of being able to use data and send free texts on my iPhone -- neither of which I was able to do in Canada, at least not without incurring an enormous roaming bill. I checked the schedule for the Keystone-Port Townsend ferry -- which would enable me to bypass Seattle entirely -- and saw that the next one would be at 6:00. No problem -- it was only 4:00. From here I got onto Chuckanut Drive for the short run to Whidbey Island.
Chuckanut Drive, a.k.a. Washington Highway 11, is a WPA-era road blasted into sheer cliffs along beautiful Bellingham and Samish Bays. But as you might expect, the road quality is rather poor, and the speed limits are commensurately absurd. After Highway 11 flattened out into the Skagit Valley, I veered off onto some country lanes to shave a few minutes off the ride over to Whidbey Island. For part of the way, I followed a trio of noisy "Patriot Guard" dudes, who eventually got tired of riding at the speed limit and roared ahead.
Soon I was on busy Highway 20 heading into Anacortes. And then, after a short transit across Fidalgo Island, came the obligatory photo op at Deception Pass.
Although the weather was cool and overcast, the rain held off for a while. I stopped again in Oak Harbor to refuel, and noticed that it was already 5:20. But the ferry terminal was only about 15 miles away. No problem! Until I (a) made a wrong turn, (b) got stuck in a traffic jam, and (c) discovered that in order to line up for the ferry, you have to go 1 mile up a dead-end road and make a U-turn. Fortunately, the ferry was running a bit late that day, and being a motorcyclist, I didn't have to worry about waiting in line. Two of those Patriot Riders were there too.
At around 6:10 we loaded up and soon thereafter slid out of the Keystone dock.
You can see all kinds of things aboard Washington State Ferries -- bald eagles, orcas, and occasionally a guy with a pink cast on his leg.
We docked in Port Townsend, the Patriots on their overpriced noisemakers sped off, and I resumed my leisurely progress down Highway 20. Soon I was on 101, which hugs the eastern shore of Hood Canal, and that's when the skies opened up and gave me a good dousing. This went on for about 20 miles, then the clouds lifted and I even saw an occasional "sunbreak," as Northwest weathermen like to say. By the time I reached Brinnon, I was becoming weary, sore, and cold. But I liked this place, because they evidently believe in providing special places for ex-cons to get a drink and a meal.
This was in Mason County, which was crawling with LEOs. Eventually I made it to the freeway section of 101, located the dismayingly expensive hotel in Olympia that I had Yelped earlier -- but at 8 pm on a showery Wednesday evening, who was I to argue? -- and checked in. The location was good, just north of downtown Olympia with its many taverns and restaurants. I dined modestly on beer and fish & chips, strolled around in the late-evening twilight, and called it a night.
Total mileage, day 3 (7/8): 267 (Middlebury to New York).
Thursday
I awoke with the dispiriting realization that I had to ride all the way back to San Francisco in two days, which despite my earlier SF-to-Seattle endurance test seemed like a daunting challenge. I had a quick hotel breakfast, consisting mostly of identically-shaped chewy disks made out of similarly squishy substances, but which I think were supposed to be eggs and sausage. Yum yum.While in Olympia, I was perilously close to the dreaded I-5. But I quickly rode in the opposite direction, and headed west down Highway 8 toward the coast. There is not a lot to recommend this corner of Washington, devoted as it is to the timber-industrial complex. After a few turns -- 8 to 101 to 4 to 401 -- I came across the little town of Naselle, which is apparently hosting a big Finnish Festival next summer. Duly noted.
Shortly afterwards, the Columbia, which I am obliged to refer to here as "the mighty Columbia," came into view. Highway 401 followed it for a few miles to the north end of the Astoria bridge, and soon I was back in the land of no self-service gas and no sales tax. I was low on gas again, and perplexingly, there weren't any stations along my route here. So I made a small detour into Warrenton, where I filled up and had a beverage. And then I embarked on what was to become a long, slow, often frustrating, occasionally stunning, but mostly unmemorable slog down US101 along the entire Oregon coast.
The northern section is the worst, with small towns occurring every 5-10 miles, ever-present trucks and RVs, and only occasional glimpses of the ocean.
By 1:30 or so, I started looking for someplace to eat. You'd think that on the Oregon coast, it would be pretty easy to find a cup of clam chowder and a crab roll. You would, however, be wrong, especially if you're the kind of rider who has a tendency not to spot likely eateries until it's too late to turn. The stretch down past Tillamook and through lovely green valleys was very nice, but somewhat devoid of roadhouses... so it wasn't until Lincoln City that I resolved to stop somewhere, somehow, no matter what. I saw a sign for Mo's, which boasted the best clam chowder in the solar system, or words to that effect. So that's where I went.
Big mistake. There was a line out the door, even at 2:30 pm. And the adjacent parking lot was filled to capacity. I weaseled into a parking space, and after fending off several predatory car drivers, I went to investigate. It would clearly take too long to get lunch here, so I wandered around a bit and enjoyed the sea air, the soft whispering of the surf, and the dulcet tones of a family declaiming loudly in Cantonese as they rinsed their feet after digging for shellfish.
I consulted my trusty TomTom and it recommended a place a couple of miles down the road. Closed. What the fuck does a guy have to do to get a bowl of clam chowder around here?! So I sighed and rode on south to Depoe Bay, where I parked precariously on a small hill and wandered into a place called Gracie's Sea Hag. Clam chowder: check. Iced tea: check. Seafood entré: meh. It was an open-faced sandwich on an English muffin, with a few small bits of seafood swimming in a sea of rapidly congealing melted cheese. Yum!
After lunch, the relatively nice part of the coast began. Past Yachats, my favorite town on the coast, the road climbed up Heceta Head and yet another mandatory photo-op.
This is about 100 yards from the Sea Lion Caves. These dudes have the right idea.
The rarest sight of all: a stretch of US 101 with perfect pavement, twisties, and no traffic.
After this, it was more trees, more cars, more RVs, more trucks, more trees, more RVs, and so on and on and on. On the plus side, I was making good time -- and, as I discovered at my next gas stop in Bandon, getting excellent gas mileage: 61 mpg! I also realized that I would easily make it to Brookings by the end of the day, so I sped through the darkening forests and along the wild, desolate coast.
Finally, at 8:45 I made it to Brookings. I went into a large Best Western at the harbor's edge, only to be informed that the "only available" room would be $199. I sputtered a bit and retreated to a nearby, non-harborside place that was $100 cheaper. And the nice little old lady behind the desk even gave me a $10 "motorcycle discount." A pleasant way to end to the day. Then came beer & fish & chips (this having become the official meal of this trip).
Total mileage, day 4 (7/9): 474 (Columbus to Philadelphia).
Friday
On Friday I rode 101 all the way home. The end.And now for the non-Cliff Notes version: My cunning plan to avoid I-5 was working beautifully... until it occurred to me that US 101 in most of Northern California isn't really much better. Well, that's not really fair to poor old Highway 101, but it still includes an awful lot of freeway miles and not a huge amount of pretty ocean scenery. Friday morning dawned damp and dismal, and I got a bit wet as I headed south out of Brookings and almost immediately crossed the state line into sweet home California. Somewhere past Crescent City and a miserable stretch of road construction, I got one last shot of the coast.
The road then plunged into the redwoods, then became a freeway, and soon enough I was in Arcata. Well, actually, 11:30 isn't exactly "soon" when it comes to breakfast, but there you go. I stopped at the same café I had visited two years earlier, but for some reason they didn't remember me. White dudes with dreadlocks -- which I believe is the official hairstyle of Humboldt County -- were playing reggae music in the town square. In Arcata it's compulsory to smoke dope if you want to hang out for any length of time, but I still had another 250 miles to ride, so instead I just took a picture and left.
And now for the final stretch. Up to now, I had been cold and clammy, almost shivery, but as soon as I left the coastal plain behind somewhere past Scotia, the clouds vanished almost instantaneously and it was suddenly hot. I snaked down 101 to Garberville, homeland of the Redneck Hippie, where I de-layered and be-Camelbak'd myself to cope with the heat. Here I saw three other V-Stroms parked along the main drag, their owners lazing in the sun. I waved grandly to them as I passed them on my way back onto the freeway southbound, but found that what had been an on-ramp during my previous visit had become a cul-de-sac, and I had to backtrack through town again. Doh!
One thing about riding 1900 miles in 4 1/2 days is that unless you're in tip-top physical condition, which I am decidedly not, your back, legs, shoulders, wrists, hips, feet, neck, and various other body parts can grow somewhat sore and weary. This fact hit me hard somewhere between Garberville and Ukiah -- and then, just to make things even more fun, the afternoon wind kicked up. In Ukiah I made yet another long, stupid detour in search of someplace to get some more water for my Camelbak, then took my windshield off and stowed it in the topcase, just as I did last year in Utah. With every nerve in my body screaming for relief, and with a grim determination to complete the mission -- and more importantly, drink a margarita -- hit the road again. The Friday-afternoon traffic was, of course, mostly heading north, so I made good time toward Santa Rosa... where I promptly hit a clot of traffic and had to lane-share for a few minutes along a rather dodgy section of freeway under construction.
It was clear sailing through the last bit of Sonoma County and into Marin. Then I came to San Rafael and once again had to hit the brakes. This time it was about 5 miles' worth of lane-splitting, right on top of a big seam/ridge thing between the two left lanes. Just what I needed. Turns out there was an accident up ahead. Then, even more grimly and determinedly (is that a word?) I covered the remaining few miles until I reached Nature's own air-conditioning condenser: the Golden Gate. And then I rode home. The end. Really.
Total mileage, day 5: 397 (Boston to Baltimore).
Total for the entire trip: 2154 (San Francisco to Chicago).
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