Summer Tour BBB 2010 - Solo Tour of the West Coast and Beyond (Complete Trip Report)

[Olive]

My first adventure of this summer was a two week 10,000 km (6,200 mile) trip exploring the West Coast. on the way south, and coming up through Utah and visiting Yellowstone on the return trip The ride was on my BMW F800S but since my last trip report about picking up the VFR and riding it home across the states had such a strong response I thought I would share this adventure with VFRD as well. In common with all of my other long trips, this was a solo journey with a meet up with some other riders enroute - yes, some of them even on VFRs.

A bit of background...

In 2009 I decided to do a solo week long trip into the states. I met up with some friends, and we nicknamed the ride BBB - Bikes, Beer and BS. It was a successful get together and we decided to do it again for 2010. This ride report is both my journey to and from BBB 2010, as well as the group ride itself. We opted to set up the meet up location for this year the same as 2009 in Kanab, just north of the Grand Canyon. It gave us great access to roads in northern Arizona and southern Utah, as well as being reasonably central for people gathering from Nevada and Arizona. My ride was a wee bit longer than theirs, and I will share the adventure with you below. This thread will be updated regularly until the entire trip has been accounted for, and is apt to be a little photo heavy.

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This year's adventure started off after work on Friday, June 25th. I got home after a long shift, took a shower, and packed the last minute items. Getting the gear loaded on the bike always seems to take longer than I anticipate. I had to make a small detour on the way out of town to drop off keys to a friend. My bike fully loaded up with camping gear for the trip outside of her office.

That chore out of the way, I filled up with gas and headed out of town. I had to stop to double check that I hadn't inadvertently picked up an extra rider on the back. This year I used a roll bag on the pillion seat in combination with a GIVI Trunk instead of saddlebags which had the effect of moving the weight much higher. The bike felt like I had a well behaved rider on the back, one that I got used to very quickly.

I headed out of town through a couple of construction zones, and then out into farm country. A much later start in the day than I had initially planned, but the trip was underway.

As I approached the mountains I took a short break and brought out the camera.

I headed onwards, and ran into some major construction with significant delays on the TransCanada. After spending a few hours inching my way forward, I decided that I was tired (hadn't bothered with a nap after working a graveyard shift) and headed into Lake Louise to set up camp. I had hoped to be camping well into BC, as Lake Louise is normally a day trip, but decided to listen to what my body was telling me so I didn't abruptly end the trip before it began.

This year I had a much larger tent than on my last trip - and was quite well equipped inside with a small, super light and small inflatable sleeping pad (borrowed). There was even enough room for all of my gear. The Lake Louise campground is rather pricey because it is inside a national park, but campsites are well spaced out and provide a lot of privacy.

Lake Louise is well known for bears. Garbage containers are well marked and set up so that humans can access them but bears can not.

Bear fences, and even electrified cattle gates - don't stop and put your foot down on this. (Bicycles and pedestrians were to go through the side gate. You know you are in Canada when the signs are presented in both English and French... and the French signs at times are larger than the English.).

After camp was set up for the night, I wasn't as tired as I had thought, and decided to walk into the town site and find a quick bite to eat. Walking out on the main road I ran into this well worn speed sign - it just seemed to call for an artistic photographic approach.

Continuing down the river pathway, I took out my camera to share the experience with you. Not a lot of narrative is needed here.

A canoe was out on the river.

Ran into this old building starting to decay. I have always found a strange appeal in graveyards and old buildings that are decaying. My morbid side comes to light?

Another opportunity for an artistic shot was presented by this birdhouse.

And the iconic Lake Louise as seen from the town site.

The town site - signs of human inhabitation in a mountain wilderness... Tourists everywhere. A lot of places that I go are tourist havens, but the unspoiled wilderness is what appeals to me more. I usually make an effort to take photos that don't have other people or vehicles in them - they don't seem to belong.

I returned to the campsite for what was to be a very chilly night - it hit 0C (33F) inside my tent. Brrr! I was ready for the warmth promised by more southern regions.

... stay tuned for the next installment when I head into BC

[Guest]

Subscribed, Olive! Thanks! :cheerleader: Getting primed for some good story tellin'! ...33* INSIDE the tent? I'm thinking not.

[cruzinaz]

:laughing6-hehe: :laughing6-hehe: I was going to e-mail you this morning to get you to post the last 2 BBB rides.

Enjoy folks, you're in for another great adventure :biggrin:

[Olive]

I woke up in Lake Louise in the tent absolutely frozen. I was buried in a sleeping bag, but unzipped it just enough to bravely reach one cold hand out to check the temperature. The thermometer said 33F. I fumbled for the button that converted Farenheit to Celcius and realized that 0C inside the tent was why I was feeling a little cold.

Part of the reason for riding south on this trip was to find some warmth. Aussie and Cruz had warned me of temps in the one-teens in Nevada and Arizona, and I was looking forward to experiencing them for myself. But certainly this first morning didn't seem very promising for warmth. I briefly considered getting out of the little warmth the sleeping bag afforded me to pack up the tent, and opted to wait until it was a wee bit warmer. Riding in near freezing temperatures in perforated leathers just didn't hold a great appeal, no matter how early of a start I wanted to get on my day.

A few hours later, I ventured out of the sleeping bag, removed a few layers of clothing so I could don my leathers, packed everything back up on the bike and shrugged into my gear. It was still a cool ride, but tolerable. I wistfully thought of the heated vest that was in my closet at home - perhaps I ought to have packed it along.

Directing my bike onto the TransCanada Highway, I headed for British Columbia. My first stop was at the marker welcoming travelers to BC. A few photos of the mountains – some low clouds and snow tell the tale.

I headed onwards through the Rockies. These are my roads, and while the TransCanada is a busy highway it still provided a lot of panoramic views and curves. The government has embarked on a project to “improve” the highway, which seems to encompass twinning it in sections and doing their utmost to straighten out the roads. Personally I prefer the curves.

I stopped briefly at the tunnels to snap a few photos – these run through parts of the Rogers Pass and protect vulnerable parts of the road from snow and rock slides. They used to seem much longer when I was younger.

My first real stop of the day was in Revelstoke – it was time to fill up the gas tank and get my morning coffee. I stopped at Dennys for a plate of pancakes and to warm up – it was still a bit chilly outside. I knew that I would be thankful that I was wearing perforated leathers a little later in the trip, but that did little to keep me warm at this point. I had extra clothing stuffed inside my leathers and the heated grips running on maximum.

From Revelstoke I headed south down roads that were new to me. Highway 23 proved to be a very pretty scenic drive, and at Shelter Bay I had my first Ferry ride at Upper Arrow Lake.

The lineup for the Ferry and a few views of the lake.

As I waited for the ferry I got off the bike and removed a few layers of clothing. The day was starting to warm up, which was a very welcome change.

On the Ferry I was waved to the front of the middle lane, effectively putting my bike on a downhill slope on the metal decking. I wasn't quite sure what to expect for the ride, and decided that staying on the bike would be the easiest way to stabilize it if it wasn't smooth sailing.

The ferry ride was very smooth and had some awesome views of the mountains surrounding the lake. Next time I will get off the bike and take a better look around. Although I am glad that I opted to err on the side of caution on my initial ride. I wound up having a discussion with the driver of the car parked next to me as well as a photographer who was taking advantage of the ride to take a few photos.

As the ferry came in to dock, the entire front plate was lowered – directly in front of my bike I had a close up view of a fifteen foot stretch of lake before the road began. It was an oddly unsettling feeling, and I understood why vehicles weren't parked up near the nose of the boat. Docking was a very smooth process, and I was waved off the boat first giving me a nice start on a very clear highway ahead.

From the 6, I turned down the 3, a wonderfully curvy road. As sunset approached I made the final approach into Oysoyos. It wasn't the fastest route down, but the roads had a lot of appeal – the real reason for choosing it for my route. The drop down into Oysoyos was a road built for bikes.

Time to find a place to pitch the tent for the night, I pulled into a campground just before town. While I waited for the person working the desk to finish up with a previous customer, I had a short conversation with another biker. Riding alone I seem to arouse a lot of curiosity. When my turn came I enquired and was told that the campground was full for the weekend. As I turned to go, the biker that I had been talking to piped up to ask “How much to add an extra tent at our site?” A few minutes later I had split the cost of the site with this other rider, met his fiancee and set up my tent on a corner of their site. It really shows the generous spirit of riders everywhere.

I was camping in Rattlesnake Country, as proudly proclaimed by the sign.

As the colours of the sunset developed I had the opportunity to take some fabulous shots of the lake.

[Guest]

This latest installment help to start my day of in a peaceful fashion! I ride the ferry in Galveston, Tx from time to time and being up front when the gate goes down is interesting to say the least. It isn't dropped pryor to docking but the idea that you are just a few steps from being part of the pilings doesn't go unchecked in my mind...

[TexOz]

Crikey Olive, ... you're an insatiable tourer/writer/blogger!

Plse don't go changing :biggrin:

:lurk:

[Olive]

Another installment in the ongoing saga of a woman, her bike, her camera and a new adventure...

The next morning I packed up my tent, loaded the bike and headed into town for a morning coffee. The Oroville border crossing was directly outside of town, but boasted a long line up. At this hour of the morning they only had one line open serving large commercial vehicles as well as cars, trucks and me on the bike. It took quite a while for the line to slowly creep forwards, and by the time I was committed they opened up the regular non-commercial lanes. If I would have left twenty minutes later I would have been through the border much faster. But I was still making very good time, and headed into the States. Finally it felt as if my vacation had really begun.

Washington was a continuation of British Columbia, but the character of the mountains, hills and vegetation slowly changed. As I traveled down the highway I was struck by the large number of election signs that I saw. Unlike the election signs that I was accustomed to, these were advertising for positions that struck me as really odd to be elected officials. Sheriff? Coroner? Definitely a little different from the way we do things in Canada.

The road was in good repair, but summer roadwork was evident, especially down a 30 km section which was nothing but oiled pressed gravel obviously mid-construction Not my favourite type of road to travel on, especially not when it is a main highway at speed.

I took the 97 down to the 20 which I followed through forests and passed through a mountain range. It was a wonderful mountain road that was full of curves. In places the sun was blocked by the tall mountains reaching overhead, leaving me riding through darkly shaded curves and dimly lit forests only to open out into areas lit by sunshine well diluted by the clouds overhead. For a while it felt as if I was not actually using the bottom of the tire, only the sides as I went from curve to curve.

Progress was slowed up a bit by traffic, especially on some of the curvier portions of the road with steep uphill or downhill grades. There were few opportunities to pass, but quite a few pullouts and signs advising slower vehicles that it was unlawful for them to fail to pull over when they had more than five vehicles behind them. Not all of the large motorhomes pulling trailers believed that this referred to them, which made for slow progress at times. Some of the pullouts would have afforded great photo opportunities however were on steep enough grades (either up or down) that I opted not to try parking.

The chilly rain that drizzled down most of the day was my excuse for not taking as many photos in Washington - but I can guarantee you that I will make up for that lack as soon as I reach the Coast and Utah.

Oh look! I found snow! (Wasn't I going on this trip in an effort to avoid that nasty cold white stuff?).

Watch that drop off. Guard rails don't seem to be a priority here.

I knew that the rear tire was coming up for replacement on the trip and was keeping a careful eye on it, being very familiar with the sickening feeling of having a tire go flat at speed. Not an experience that I ever want to repeat. I noticed at a gas stop that the rear was beginning to cup a little bit, and started to question how early I would need to look at replacement.

Some of the gas stations found in the smaller centers have a real character to them.

Continuing on riding through overcast skies, I caught up with some liquid sunshine. There was enough that I found it necessary to stop to put on my rain gear over the leathers. The rain gear fit well, with two exceptions – it didn't account for the speed hump at the back of the leathers, so didn't close well at the neck, and despite having straps with velcro to adjust it was too large to tuck in at my waist. I resolved that I would sew some new velcro on the straps once I returned home to afford a better fit.

Later in the day I passed through Seattle on the I5. I normally don't like the interstates, but rather enjoyed passing through the large city as it felt very different from the roads that I am used to. At times the road was six lanes wide, and the interchanges were a wonderful macrame of concrete and steel girders dancing overhead.

My initial plan called for taking the 101, but I missed the exit and traveled down to the 30 instead. Sometimes the "manual GPS" has a few drawbacks when turns off of the road aren't as well marked as one might hope. I was still heading for the coast, just not picking it up quite where I had originally planned. The route I took traveled over a couple of phenomenal bridges that were marvels of engineering and seemed to span incredible distances. Coming off of one of these I was greeted by a small herd of deer grazing at the side of the road. It was getting dark as I approached Clatskanie, and I followed the first campground sign that I saw. It lead down a private country road to an RV campground. I pulled in the gravel drive and saw a large open field. At one end a small squat building sat, and surrounding the field were campsites. The host was very welcoming of a lone motorcycle, providing great rates and even helped me hunt for a large flat stone to secure my kickstand so the bike would remain upright overnight.

I had neglected to pack a kickstand plate in my luggage. The kickstand on the F800S is a very dainty looking thing, ending in a tiny foot that is well suited to digging holes in warm asphalt and burrowing into the dirt. These activities are not always conducive to maintaining an upright posture for the bike. In contrast the stand on the VFR is much better suited to the purpose. A flat stone served the purpose of spreading out the weight and keeping the bike stable while I spent the night in a tent.

[VFR4Lee]

Great pics and narrative. :fing02:

[Guest]

Smooth as usual! I dont know whether this EXCELLENT cup of coffee helped the read go smoothly, or if this EXCELLENT read helped a very poor excuse for java! I am constantly amazed at the temperatures that you ride in. I guess, if i lived in a clime wtih more than two seasons, i would be a bit more understanding. One day, when I grow up, my viffer wil get farkled with electric heat, lol! Thanks for fitting us into your schedule, Olive :biggrin:

[AussieinUSA]

The world of this constantly wandering crazy Canuuk makes one helluva story.......and she knows how to tell it too. Great to see ya posting more of your epic adventures O :fing02:

[Olive]

Morning called for packing up the tent once again in anticipation of finally seeing coastline and perhaps some warmer and drier weather. Leaving Clatskanie I headed down the 30 to my first view of the Ocean at Seaside. Again it was a forested run through some nice roads, although a few deer were out taking a curious look at vehicles and trying to decide if a suicidal dash was in order for the morning, or if grazing on grass would suffice for the day's entertainment. In other words, all was normal.

Time for a few more photos. As I took in my first real view of the Ocean, I spotted a Blue Heron flying overhead. Not fast enough with the camera for that shot unfortunately, but a very majestic bird.

At this point the ocean was full of evidence of man – boats, docks, bridges... Very much an industry here.

Looking back from the dock

I caught this picture of someone stretching his wings.

The ocean was a very deep bluish grey colour matching the overcast skies. Still rather cool and I was glad that I had layered clothing on underneath the leathers. I was even wearing a wintery vest stuffed under my leathers in an attempt to stay warm. Hmmm... I have heard it referred to as the “Pacific North Wet” before, and now I understood where it had gained the nickname. I rode through a lot of mist and liquid sunshine.

The road stretching along beside the coastline was partly hidden behind stone walls.

The Oregon coast was shades of dusky blue and grey. Overcast skies. But it didn't overshadow the enormity of the Ocean stretching out as far as the eye could see. At times it amazed me that I was actually standing at the cusp where the land and water met. Something that millions of others had done, but in a concrete way it seemed relevant in my life.

The weather warmed up as I headed south down the coast. As did the colours. Sobering greyish blues gave way to brighter shades of deep blue and turquoise. Colours with more life. The colours you picture when you see travel brochures advertising a coastal holiday. In some ways colours that are not often part of my life - the colours of spring and summer. Not those of fall and winter. The colours of Big Sur the following day were very vibrant - much more alive. They held the promise of more. A promise of life. The deep blues with the white crest of surf crashing on the warm brown beaches. The bright vibrant greens of foliage nurtured by a warmer climate. Colours full of life.

The coast I wanted to experience was a solo experience. I didn't want to share the pullouts with other vehicles - or even be disturbed with them in the background. I wanted it to be just me and nature. Ironically nature accessed by the widely paved roadways and polluting vehicles made by man. This is the experience that I sought - nature. In many ways it is what I ride for, even locally. A time spent alone with the universe, letting go for a moment. Or perhaps trying to. Never long enough. Uninterrupted. I was willing to share with animals, but not with man - somehow the presence of strangers corrupted the experience. Their chatter disturbed the peace that I sought. Yet I was in a place that drew dense crowds of people. Reluctantly I moved on to find another site where i could pause and try to recapture a sense of belonging. A sense that I was part of the larger world.

At times I would have liked to have shared the experience with another person. Someone to stand quiet witness with me of unspoiled nature. Perhaps that is what I am trying to do here - share the experience that words seem inadequate to express.

More awesome views...

Warm moist conditions turned the area around the coast into an amazing garden. Flowers everywhere.

Some of the curves. (Oh yeah, I remember that bump...)

I followed the Coastal highway (the 101) through Oregon. A lot of wonderful things to take in here – the Ocean, the famed Sand Dunes, capes and coves with overseeing views of the ocean stretching as far as the eye could see.

An iconic lighthouse.

Coves dotted the shoreline.

The ocean stretching out.

Looking down the cliff some Seals were enjoying the rocky coastline in the distance...

A little closer...

And closer...

And closer...

The famous Oregon Sand Dunes served as a backdrop to a tribute to fallen military heros.

Resorts dotted the coastline – man showing his mastery over nature and despoiling it in a sense. I really do prefer to see the raw coastline.

Another bridge – some of these were really marvels of engineering.

The 101 was a pleasant drive, some curves but nowhere near as many as I had found the day previous, nor would be waiting for me in California. The awesome scenery made up for any lack on the roads.

I followed the coastal highway, and was able to capture another sunset on the camera, as it started to develop the traditional pink and purple hues, through to the full experience of sun low on the ocean painting the scene in reflected light and shadow. Just beautiful overlooking the ocean. By this time the roads were almost deserted and I had the sunset to myself.

Images like these seem to capture the purity of the coast for me.

For the evening I opted to stop in Brookings, just shy of California. (About fifteen minutes north of the State line). It was dark when I finally found a place to stop for the night.

[Guest]

...how majestic.

[Olive]

I got up hoping that when I pointed my bike south that I would find some warmth. I was getting very good at packing up the bike for the day with all of the luggage that I had pulled off the night before.

In the morning as I packed the bike I talked to a couple of guys from Quebec who were packing up their bikes. They were out touring, and we were both entertained by our communication attempts – half english, half french. (Both mangled). It amused me to no end that the second time in twenty five years that I have had to pull on my rudimentary knowledge of French was in the states, on a bike trip. The first time was on the solo Canyon run last year. So much for having a second official language in this country. Guy and Guy were enjoying their tour, but agreed that the weather left a bit to be desired. We parted ways and I took off to put gas in my bike and start the daily adventure.

The morning was rather chilly and first on the agenda was crossing the California border. The 101 went through a checkpoint where I was briefly quizzed if I was carrying any produce. Hmmm... a border station between states – how promising!

It was the day that I was going to run through the famed Redwoods. I saw a few large trees as the fog started to build in. It wasn't long until the fog was very thick to the point of feeling as if I was riding through a rainstorm, but one where the raindrops were suspended in the air, collecting on me as I passed through them. Visibility was very poor, and worsened as I rode onwards. The road was narrow and wound through a dense forest with little to no shoulder at the side.

Thick fog surrounded me. Droplets collected on my visor as I passed through it. My visor fogged. I wiped it with my glove, briefly joining droplets of water and providing a fleeting moment of vision. I flipped it up. Cold damp air. Water collecting on my face. On my glasses. Running down my face. Unpleasantly cold. My glasses fogged, and I couldn't wipe enough of the precipitation off them. I finally slid them down my nose to get them out of my way. Peering intently into the fog I was functionally running blind. The water started collecting on my face - cold, damp and uncomfortable. I squeezed my eyes into slits, trying to protect them from the cold, wet wind. I focused intently on the yellow stripe on the pavement below, trusting that the road ahead was clear. The line tracked left and right around countless curves. Sweepers that went on forever. Tight curves that snuck up on me, and I trusted the bike would know what to do as I read the yellow lines and followed them like a slot car. Four ways flashing in the gloomy damp fog and my headlight illuminating the droplets of water in the air in front of me I traveled silently through the imposing trees. There at the side of the road – is that a pullout? Or perhaps another drop-off? Better not risk it. I pressed forward, nowhere I could see to pull off safely. Not that I could see much of anything with my glasses off my face. A car pulled up behind me, headlights flashing off of my mirrors. Impatient with my speed perhaps. I'm sure he could see far better than I could. He continued to follow me. I ignored him and concentrated on the road, ready to react instantly to any change of direction as indicated by the yellow line that was guiding me on this path - it was the only thing I could see. I concentrated on staying to the left side of the lane to be as visible as possible if someone decided to try to pass the vehicle tailing me. Cold. Wet. Blind. Unpleasant. Perhaps I ought to have stopped before the fog worsened. But now committed, I pressed on. The fog closed around me. Thick clouds of water pressing in. It was suffocating, even dampening out sound. I was alert, ready to react with little notice. Trying to use all of my senses to anticipate the next move as miles passed under my wheels.

Eventually the fog lifted to the point that I was able to find a place to pull off the road safely. At this point I discovered that the vehicle that had been following me was actually a police car. Unknown to me, he was escorting me through the Redwoods. He paused long enough to make sure that I was safely parked in a pull-off at the side of the road, waved at me and continued on his way.

I decided that to put in my contacts at the side of the road. It seemed a lot safer to have vision while riding if visors and glasses were fogging over - something I wished that I had thought of before setting off that morning. I continued along the 101, feeling much better about the weather and the visibility as most of the fog had finally lifted. The next town I pulled in at it was time for a coffee. I pulled into a coffee shop, walked in and said “Bonjour” as I ran into Guy and Guy once again. It was a little surreal running into a couple of people that I had met a few hours previous on a trip – so we ended up sitting together and trying to communicate in franglish once again. What were the odds of encountering the duo twice in one day?

The Redwoods are huge – and here is the typical tourist photo to illustrate just how large.

Driving down the 101 and I took a short detour down the Avenue of the Redwoods once the ubiquitous fog had dissipated. I was impressed by the size of the trees, but trees and forests have never spoken to me quite in the same way as mountains and the ocean.

The Redwoods are marketed to the tourists in an attempt to make an industry out of exploiting them. There are a few locations advertising “Drive through trees” in exchange for a few sheckels of course. Signs proclaiming that behind the fence and the low, low cost of admission was the largest tree in California. It simply amazed me how many people along the road wanted to make that very same claim, and how convenient it was that the tree in question was on their property behind a carefully constructed fence. A lot of small stores were selling wood carvings and related touristy items. I stopped outside of one for a photo opportunity of a tree house. I saw a few of these tree houses along the route, as well as some one-log cabins. But it does give you an idea of the size of the trees.

The 101 is a fairly busy highway, but wherever opportunity presented I took the smaller side routes.

I didn't stop for many photos in the forests of the Redwoods, instead eagerly pushing on back for the coast. I had to double back a short distance because I had missed out on the exit for the #1, which was the main riding plan for the day.

At the origin the #1 is a very tight, narrow road full of twists and turns as well as elevation changes. At times it felt as if whomever had constructed the road found it easier to go around trees than to uproot them in the interest of progress. Certainly not a road that anyone in their right mind would take a semi-trailer up. It struck me at times that there were some sharpish drop-offs at the edge of the road without any suggestion of guard rails. At times these made me a bit nervous – certainly if I took the bike off the edge I would be in significant trouble. The idea of lying at the bottom of a cliff patiently waiting for someone to notice that I am there has never held any appeal for me. I was eager to reach the coast again, and it felt as if the ride through the thick forest wouldn't end.

Finally the trees parted for a glimpse of the coast once again. The #1 was quite unlike the 101 – very quiet and it felt as if I didn't have to share it with much other traffic. This suited me perfectly. I have always preferred roads that i have to myself.

Photos simply do not do the coastline justice – the road in parts ran right along the craggy cliffs, changing elevation and doing sharp hairpin turns following the natural outlines of the coves far below. At times I felt as if I was riding on roads that were over my head. The roads that I regularly travel don't feature fifteen or twenty foot drops (or climbs) on a hairpin curve that doubles back on itself so sharply that it felt like I was doing a U-turn around a narrow roadway median. And apparently California did not believe in guard rails on a lot of these curves. What added to the entertainment was encountering the occasional oncoming vehicle who was unable to navigate the turn in their own lane, and insisted on sharing mine with me. I idly wondered how many vehicles were submerged in the coastal waters below.

Even here, in very remote country, there was evidence of progress. Overhead power lines stretched along the roadway.

In a few sections roadwork was evident on the 1. I have become accustomed to riding on rough roads, graveled in anticipation of fresh asphalt – but it really bothered me when I met these conditions on one of the steeply graded hairpin curves.

The views were absolutely stunning. As I headed south the colours began to warm up, as did the weather. It seemed that I had finally left the cold, clammy coastal wet behind me.

I didn't stop often for photos. The roads were narrow and very few opportunities to pull off to the side safely. My focus was also on the technical challenges offered by the roads.

Progress was much slower than I had anticipated – these roads weren't conducive to traveling at any speed. The road was very desolate, at times two or three houses huddled together. Occasionally I would pass a small hamlet of 75 or 100 homes. I passed signs advertising open range – and I met the occasional animal along the road – or on the road if they preferred. It was their rangeland, and I was the intruder who didn't belong. It became evident that there were not many opportunities to purchase gas – something that began to concern me. I was very relieved when I finally found a place to fill up the tank.

I passed through Fort Bragg – a small resort town. A little larger than the other places I had passed through. I thought this would be a good sign that perhaps the road would open up a little bit, and I eagerly anticipated seeing wider shoulders and perhaps even some guard rails at the side of the road. As I continued down the 1 I discovered that most of the people who were traveling to Fort Bragg were taking the 20, and the 1 continued to be a technical challenge.

As the sun started to drop lower in the sky, I started looking for a place to stay the night. Along this stretch of the 1 there were a lot of small resorts, but I was just looking for an inexpensive place to pitch my tent for the night. I had passed a few opportunities earlier in the day, but didn't want to double back.

More small resorts dotted the coastline.

Another coastal sunset started to develop.

As full dark fell I opted to duck east to Petaluma for dinner and a place to spend the night. I pulled into a 24 hour pancake house that was very quiet for a meal, and then found a place to spend the night.

[Guest]

Girl-- I thought that I was reading Steven King!...of course without the murderous monster-killer creature thing... Really; i was on the edge of my seat giggling like a... well; you get me.

This pic is my fave of this installment.

More small resorts dotted the coastline.

[Olive]

Morning came all too early, and it was still a little chilly. Echoes of home. I had warmed up a bit the previous day of the trip, but was still waiting for the warm sunshine southern climes promised.

After the bike was packed up, I opted to run down the 101 for a bit and pick up the 1 in Santa Cruz. After reading Joker's 2009 trip report about the 1 and Big Sur, I was eager to experience it for myself.

I stopped to quickly gas up the bike, and as I walked towards the station to pre-pay a voice called out from behind me. “Hey! Power Ranger” along with the derisive sound of laugher. I turned around to see a young fellow barely out of his teens having a good laugh along with his friends. I reposted, “That's Mrs. Power Ranger to you.” His friends thought this response was hilarious, but he looked a little unsettled. Somehow I don't think that he was expecting a woman twice his age to be wearing that sort of get-up. I found it amusing – at this point in my life I am well past caring what others think. I am not concerned about the thousands of non-helmeted motorcyclists wearing the “+1 T-shirt of protection”, and am certainly not concerned with a teenaged buck making fun of the race leathers. I actually found it to be quite amusing.

Pulling onto the 101 I noted that it was a lot busier than it had been in Oregon. It seemed that a lot of people shared my idea of heading south for the summer. The busier roads are rarely as interesting, but I was moving a lot faster than had been possible on the technical twists, turns and elevations of the coast the previous day.

At this point in my trip I knew that I was going to be taking the shorter route through Vegas rather than following the coast into Arizona. At least if I wanted to be at BBB on time. RRW had generously offered room and board if I was in the area, and volunteered to join me on the ride up through Arizona. Perhaps an offer I will be able to take advantage of on a future trip.

The scenery sped by as I moved with the flow of traffic. Frequently sliding over to the left to pass vehicles that were moving just a little slower than me. Passing other vehicles gave the impression of speed, and really made me feel alive. The road widened as roads merged and the 101 took on the characteristics of a much busier highway. I glanced left and saw a large structure. Hmmm, I thought. It looks rather familiar. I looked at it again and wondered if it was the Golden Gate Bridge. For some reason i thought that I was going to be skirting San Francisco, but perhaps I was heading into the heart of it after all. The dark red ladder-like structure certainly seemed to be on my route.

Partly distracted by my musings, I glanced back at the road AwwwSHYT! While I had been admiring the bridge in the distance, something very important had changed about my situation. I was hurtling along at 120 km/h however the car ahead of me was no longer doing the same. Two red lights were glowing just above his bumper and I was gaining on him with distressing rapidity. I immediately pulled in the clutch and squeezed the brakes hard hoping that the bike would stop before I became an ornament on the rear bumper of the car ahead of me. The bike slowed down quickly as tires howled on the pavement. Somehow I managed to kick the bike down a few gears without letting go of the clutch lever I was squeezing for dear life. Time slowed down, each second turning into an eternity as adrenaline coursed through my veins. I felt the back of the bike get light and do an unsettling wobble... Left. Right. Left. A hollow feeling in my gut. That horrid feeling that you get as the bike tries to decide if it is going to pass itself. One that all riders have had at one point in their lives.

The bike made up its mind, and the rear swung around to my left. I didn't even have time to swear. The rear wheel was trying to pass the front, and doing a very respectable job of it. I was quite aware of the stationary vehicle in front of me and wondered how this was going to end... was I going to slam into the vehicle sideways with the bike throwing me into a highside... or perhaps was I going to slide underneath the vehicle. Neither seemed a very good option. Pain seemed certain in my near future. It seemed that at this point it was totally out of my control, what was going to happen would happen. I wondered briefly if I ought to try to deliberately lowside the bike - certainly a crash of some sort seemed inevitable and I was along for the ride whether or not I wanted to be.

At this point I had spun around almost 90 degrees to my initial direction of travel. It felt as if I were moving in slow motion, although I know it happened in the blink of an eye. Instinctively I grabbed for some throttle – it had always helped me out before. If I had rationally thought about it I probably would not have seen it as a good idea. This was a case where not having time to contemplate my options was probably a good thing. I eased off the brakes slightly and swung my head to the right to see what was coming up in the lane that had been to my right as I took action. There was a car there, but he was still back a short distance. Miraculously the bike moved forwards when I eased slightly off the clutch and brakes moving forward into the lane that had been beside me. Still on the throttle I swung hard left, swerving into the space between cars, narrowly missing the cars that were already stopped – using the special “bike only” lane with the dotted line that I have always viewed as an escape route. Shaking like a leaf I applied the brakes again and came to a much more controlled stop between cars that were looking at me like I was some sort of idiot.

*Blink. *Blink. Did that just happen? Did I just pull that off? How did I manage to get away with not crashing?

My mouth was dry. I could not believe what I had just done – and what a moment's inattention had almost cost me. That would not have been a good end to the trip. Some days it almost seems as if I have a guardian angel flying beside me ready to take over the controls of the bike to do what is needful. There have been a few cases where I have managed to save things that seemed lost. Last year when I lost the air in my front tire is an incident that comes to mind. Even if I had a few hours to consider how to get myself out of that situation, I'm not sure that I would have come up with a solution. It seems that when I get into trouble something tells me against all logic and sense to apply the throttle and trust in the bike that all is not lost. Letting go of the brakes, easing off the clutch and applying throttle? What was I thinking? Very simply, I wasn't... pure instinct took over. I have no idea where it came from – I didn't know what I was doing, there was no rational thought involved. There was no time for it.

I'm honestly not sure how fast I was moving when the bike spun sideways – time had dilated to the point that speed was impossible to gauge. I had slowed somewhat from the initial highway speed I had been traveling at, but I had squeezed the brakes too hard immediately setting things into unsettling motion.

At this point I was a little shaky and was pretty sure that I needed a clean pair of underwear. I resolved to pay more attention to what I was doing. It's something that all of us do – allow our attention to wander, to move our eyes from the road for a few precious seconds. Usually we get away with it... but not always. I was incredibly fortunate and very much aware of my luck.

As soon as I was able to thread my way through traffic I pulled over to the side of the road and sat quietly for a few minutes, not quite ready to ride until the shakes subsided.

When I felt ready to ride, I pulled back into traffic, and moved over a couple of lanes and traveled over the bridge. I really didn't pay any attention to the bridge as I rode over it, not willing to divert my attention even a moment. Paying attention to the vehicles ahead of me I noticed a pair of bikes ahead of me... two bikes that looked very familiar. One was a distinctive red Valkarie. I pulled forward and was able to position myself just to the side of one of the bikes when the rider stopped at the toll booth. This put three bikes in a tight, staggered overlapping position. I reached forward and tapped the rider on the shoulder. He turned his head, and did a double take almost dropping the bike in the process. It was Guy from Quebec.

We pulled off the road after exiting the toll booth and greeted each other in a mix of French and English. “son incroyable!”. What are the odds of running into the same two riders three times on a trip? And what were the odds of running into them on a busy road like the 101, where multiple routes merge to go through San Francisco?

A brief conversation revealed that they had continued down the 101 when I had split off down the 1. Even more astonishing that we had encountered one another again given the discrepancy of routing. The 101 is a much faster road than the 1. This was deserving of a few photographs.

The toll lines exiting the bridge.

While I was on terra firma, I walked around for a bit and took some photos of the Golden Gate. This is my favourite shot – I was very happy with the framing. It's almost worthy of a postcard.

After our farewells, Guy, Guy and myself parted ways again. I headed through San Francisco. Street cars. Cafes. Oddly shaped buildings. Architecture reminiscent of the '60s and '70s. Kitchy restaurants. Sidewalk signs. This section of San Francisco had a very interesting local flavour – very different from some of the other large cities I had passed through that boasted restaurant chains and brand new sky scrapers. Driving down a busy downtown artery I realized that I had obviously made a wrong turn at some point – it wasn't busy enough to be the highway, and was speckled with traffic lights. I continued down the road watching for signs indicating that the 1/101 lay ahead.

It wasn't long before I had rejoined the concrete ribbons that wound their way through interchanges and exits. Traffic was once again heavy, and I continued to head south towards Santa Cruz. Once again thoughts of my near miss were on my mind.

Signs pointed towards Santa Cruz. The wind was strong coming in off the Ocean, but the sun was warm overhead. I passed a number of factory farms, noting the number of workers in the field. Trucks with port-a-potties were parked nearby. Definitely a large economic concern. Very different than the farms that I see closer to home. Idly I wondered how many of the workers were from Mexico. Continuing down the 101 I passed some large industrial plants. The scent of not-so-fresh fish told me that the fishing industry was alive and well. This was a far cry from what I was used to at home, and it struck me how things could be so different, yet remain the same.

Welcome to Santa Cruz. I had returned to the Ocean. It was clear that this town catered to the tourist. I spotted a sign for Fisherman's Wharf. That sounded familiar, so I followed it to a busy section of the city. I had heard about Fisherman's Wharf before, but hadn't connected it with Santa Cruz. Somehow I thought it was in San Francisco. Regardless, I had found it. The parking lots were very full, and paid parking was quite expensive. I circled the block and spotted something more within my budget. McDonalds. With a view of the Ocean. That would suffice for a morning cup of coffee, even though the sun was pressing towards zenith.

After my coffee, I opted to leave the bike parked where it was for a few minutes and crossed the street to go to the beach. I clipped the shoulder strap onto the tank bag so it would be easier to carry, and pulled out my camera settling it in it's usual position around my neck.

The tank bag was something that I was not comfortable leaving with the bike. In a lot of senses it was my purse. In addition to my wallet it also contained my cell phone, a small computer, i-pod, and my power/battery charging setup. There really was no good way to lock it to the bike, and I still don't trust that my stuff will be left alone when I walk away from the bike. Call me paranoid. I had a cable lock run through the hooks on the roll bag on my seat and the case for the tent, with the padlock holding the main zipper on the bag closed. It was not substantial enough to keep out a determined thief, but enough to keep honest people honest. (Or so I hoped). There was enough slack in the cable that I could unlock it and use it to run through the chin bar of my helmet to secure it to the bike as well. However, at each stop the tank bag was unclipped from the bike and carried with me. At times I wished that I had a smaller tank bag, but my choice was about functionality more than convenience.

I figured that I had to at least walk on the beach once if I was going to travel to the Ocean. It only seemed right. I wiggled my Sidis in the sand, getting a few odd looks from others who were dressed a bit more appropriately for the sand and sun. You would think that they had never seen someone wearing full race leathers on the beach before.

A few photos of the beach

After a few photos, I hiked back to the bike, where I had a classic oh-chyt moment. My keys weren't around my wrist. Nope. Not around the left wrist either. Nor had I left them in the ignition of the bike. Now what? I scrabbled inside my leathers and checked – the inside pocket was empty. Not a good feeling. I opened up the tank bag I had been carrying with me and quickly checked out the contents. What a sinking feeling not to find the familiar stretchy yellow coil keychain. I did have a spare set of keys with me on the trip, but they were securely locked inside the GIVI. I really didn't want to have to break into my luggage, but it seemed that I might not have a lot of choice.

I carefully retraced my steps, and even enquired inside the McDonalds to ask if a set of keys had been handed in. A blank look confirmed that I had a small problem. Ok. Obviously I had dropped them on my short walk to the beach. Once again I shouldered the heavy tank bag and started out to retrace my steps. Hmmm... perhaps I ought to take one more look before I go trudging through the sand again. A second check of the tank bag revealed that I had dropped them in the side pocket. Crisis averted. It certainly was turning out to be an eventful day.

Striking out from Santa Cruz, I eagerly followed the coastline heading for Big Sur. In some senses this was a highlight of my trip, and somewhere that I had wanted to travel ever since I had read Joker's comment on his trip report the previous year. “You can't really tell from the pic, but under my helmet I'm giggling like a little girl”. That quote has always brought a smile to my face, and said so much about the experience of the coast. It was an experience that I had myself as well. There is something about the coast that speaks to your soul – at least it does to mine. And I think Joker understands this on a visceral level as well.

The coast changes as you traverse it. The deeper sombre tones of blueish grey give way to vibrant turquoise. It's almost difficult to conceptualize that it is all the same coast. At times it feels that there is a master artist who has subtly shifted palates as they moved down the coast, getting bored with one tonality and changing to a different one. Subtly changing the vegetation as well – different plants, different flowers... but very subtle changes so it's almost unnoticed as you traverse it, only to recognize that you are in a different world than a mere hour previously.

As much as the colours and vegetation changed, so did the people. Gone were the remote quiet roads of the initial coastline replaced with the busier ones of the more popular tourist destinations. At times it was hard to take a photo without other people or cars getting in the way. Perhaps I was being greedy, wanting the coast to myself. But there was something about standing at the top of the cliff alone that couldn't compete with the chatter of others.

Gas stations were more populous as well, although if you needed to fill your tank you paid dearly for that privilege. One that I took at every opportunity remembering that uneasy feeling of almost empty from the previous day.

There were times that I had sections of the road to myself – or sections of the coastline. Along this section of the run numerous turnouts dotted the road and provided excellent photo opportunities. One I took advantage of, as it was an experience that I wanted to document.

The bike with my advanced “GPS” against the constant backdrop of the Ocean. Not many roads intersected the 1. It was about the coastline. Beaches and resorts catering to the tourist. A few homes and ranches. But still a very special experience, and a place I want to return to ride once again.

The photos fail to convey the full majesty of the ocean. They show the colours and shapes. But they can't capture the size. They show the white caps on the waves and capture some of the vegetation. But they can't touch the spirit of the Ocean. A feeling of awe and majesty when you are faced with the west coast. There were times when I stood on the edge of Big Sur and felt impossibly small. I was viewing a coastline that had stood throughout time, one that would outlast me and those petty worries in my life. It spoke to me on a very deep level.

Standing alone on a remote cliff looking down at the intense blue water crashing white on the jagged rocks hundreds of feet below. The water extended to the horizon and well beyond a I stood on the cusp, a dividing line between land and sea. The insidious forces that had shaped the coastline were evident – erosion and weathering on the rocks, the ocean constantly pressing in, receding and returning once again. The coast was as it had been for thousands of years. Gradual weathering subtly changing the lines but always a battle between land and sea.

I felt insignificant standing at the top of that cliff. One person with a very limited lifetime. Just one more reflection of nature in a sea of billions of other people. What difference does one individual make? Somehow I think that I am special, that there is something different about me from everyone else. But that's the ego talking – that spark that sets each of us apart for another. We see ourselves from a different perspective. In some ways more real than others. Our friends, acquaintances and those we come into regular contact with take on a certain immediacy and a stronger reality. One in which their personalities come to manifest themselves as a collections of needs, hopes and desires. Yet it seems all so irrelevant standing at the top of that cliff. What was one individual – a dust mote dancing in the sunlight. The worries of life, money, belongings, achievements, the daily rituals ceased to matter. Nothing will be left to mark those worries in a hundred years. Yet the ocean will still be slowly making its mark on the rocks. The ocean has a way of shifting your perspective.

There is something about being there as a solitary witness to the grandeur of nature. While I felt small, I also felt very much alive and in tune with what was happening around me. For a moment i was able to step outside of myself and become part of the universe. Breathe in. Breathe out. Waves wash in. Waves wash out. All part of the natural rhythm of life. Everything ceased to matter. The petty worries, the manmade concerns... even time seemed to stand still for a moment in the silence broken by the crashing waves far below. I was no longer a person, an individual, but part of that cliff. Part of the water. I had a strong connection with the universe. A sense of profound belonging.

For some reason I stood at the top of that cliff with tears running down my face. It was very intense, but also very private. I don't think I can explain it – the universe spoke and I was there as a witness to listen.

The spell was broken by the unwelcome sound of a car engine sputtering around the corner to divulge a group of people. They spilled out of the car chattering to themselves. A teenager was listening to an Ipod, blasting music. A child was tired and thirsty. A woman was chattering away about her hairdresser. They seemed to be the intruders on this clifftop. They invaded nature, moving in a hurry to have the experience of that viewing site only to jump back into the car and roar off to the next. They saw the picture, but were missing the spirit that was behind it.

This is the experience of the coast. One for anyone to experience if they are willing to stand there quietly and allow the world to happen. It happened on the coastline. Along Big Sur. Even standing among the rock formations in Utah. Something a lot larger drew me into a connection with the universe – a connection with nature. It was almost as if for a few brief moments that I was unplugged from the world I live in and my soul was joined with something larger. A very intense experience.

Pictures simply cannot do it justice, yet they are what I have to offer here.

Roads curved around the outlines of the coast. Tight turns. Elevation rising and falling in a rollercoaster of adrenaline.

One day, but it felt like more. A lot of experiences, ranging from fear and terror to awe and wonder. All part of the journey. One that simply wouldn't be possible in the same way in a car. A definite reminder of why I journey on the bike. That night I stopped in San Luis Obispo, tired from the events of the day.

[Guest]

... :blush: What an experience.

[Olive]

The sun rose again, and it seemed that the experience of the Golden Gate Bridge was a lifetime ago. I took a look at my map and set my path inland down the 58 headed for Bakersfield and the promise of a new rear tire.

The original revised plan had been that I would change the tire when I reached Las Vegas. There was a Cycle Gear near Aussie's house, as well as a garage full of tools, and extra pairs of hands if they were needful. I was fairly confident that I could handle the tire myself with the tools I had with me, but the idea of removing a wheel in an open parking lot left a bit to be desired. I know that the bike is not going to fall off the centerstand with the wheel removed, but part of me feels a lot more confident when I am in a sheltered location without wind - one where I can add a tiedown or two to ensure that the bike isn't going anywhere. This was the first time that I actually had a center stand on the 800, previously removal of wheels had been accomplished by balancing the bike on a makeshift stand using tiedowns to stabilize it.

Aussie had emailed a recommendation that I change the tire before Vegas. There was a question if staff were going to be in on Friday to change the rubber, as well as the complication that the Vegas store doesn't change tires until after 11:00 am, and the plan was for everyone to be on the road for Kanab by noon. It wasn't quite what I had hoped to hear, but the tire needed to be replaced, and I would take advantage of the opportunity when it presented itself.

I struck out across country for Bakersfield with a pang of regret leaving the coastline's incredible vistas and technical roads behind. Heading down the 58, I passed through one of the many small towns that I had become accustomed to seeing. I wasn't even noting their names. Sometimes I wondered if they even were large enough to have names. They were all the same – a small collection of buildings huddled together. The basics – a cafe, gas station and small general store. Smaller towns might not even have that many amenities. Quite a few of the gas stations were closed - a pattern that seemed to repeat itself anywhere I traveled, small independent stores boarded up and closed.

Leaving one of the small towns I passed over the railroad tracks and spotted a sign stating fireworks were banned. Yes, the flora inland was a lot dryer than the coast, and it was understandable that dry brush could catch fire easily. About five minutes out of town I passed a sign that advised the next services were 60 miles away. The sign was well weathered and partly hidden behind some shrubbery. I almost missed it. I have never understood the positioning of the services signs. It would make a lot more sense to locate them before the last gas station, or at a location where there is plenty of room to turn a vehicle around. Not five or ten miles past that location. But I am grateful that they post up the reminder, it has saved me a lot of grief in the past. After quickly consulting my odometer I slowed down and did a U-turn. Back to nameless small town USA!

Even here in the middle of nowhere, California's gas pumps attempted to out-smart my bike. Environmental concerns over fumes have resulted in all pumps in California being outfitted with a fume hood. While it works with most vehicles, the positioning of the cap on my tank makes it impossible to use it as it is intended. To get the safety interlocks to release I had to compress the rubber hood with my hands. With the bike I always fill the tank to the top, which is a visual cut-off. I found that if I fill the bike and allow the pump to cut-off when it senses the tank is full, I am running with only ¾ of a tank. Given the size of the tank on the 800, this is not the best idea under most circumstances. However on last year's trip I learned that it was not a good idea to fill quite all the way in hot weather, as the cold gas coming out of the underground tank expands in the warm bike, running down the fuel overflow hose.

With a full tank of gas I retraced my steps over the railway tracks, past the fireworks warning sign and down the 58. The road actually looked quite promising. Signs advised that the curves ahead were not appropriate for large trucks, and the familiar yellow winding road ahead and cautionary speed signs appeared. The road cut around a series of foothills. At times past rocky craigs and others around smaller hills that were better classified as bumps on the ground. It was evident that the road had initially been a cart track which had taken the easiest route around and through the hills, sacrificing time for ease of passage.

As the road continued the vegetation began to change again. Sage and small bushes dotted the landscape. At times I passed large vineyards with signs outside welcoming visitors to stop in for tours and wine tasting. I continued to ride past them through the hills. The road took the indirect route through the hills, and one section of the road even went over a series of small hills. It seem as if the workers who were laying the pavement were too lazy to flatten out the ground, so they poured a undulating ribbon of concrete right over the low hills like a sine wave. It was a blast to ride over these bumps and ridges. They were very regular, and I had the speed just right so the bike hovered at the apex of each hill, lifting up off the wheel, almost weightless for a moment, before rushing down the incline and up the next one. Then onwards to more curves, past more wineyards and the occasional ranch seemingly tossed in for some variety.

After a while I noticed a few oil derricks in the distance. As I approached them I saw the familiar outlines of an oil field. More derricks dotted across the landscape. Small unpaved access roads stretched across the fields. An above ground pipeline fed a small processing station. The road straightened out and I saw a bit more traffic on it. Some trucks and workers were scurrying around servicing the wells.

Mid morning I reached Bakersfield. I smiled inwardly to myself as the familiar tune and lyrics came to mind. “I came here looking for somethin' I couldn't find anywhere else. Well I don't want to be a nobody, I want a chance to be myself.... You don't know me but you don't like me, you say you care less how I feel, how many of you who sit and judge me, have walked the streets of Bakersfield?”

It was a town, like anywhere else. I pulled off the road into a large box-store parking lot – America at its finest? I had an address for the Cycle Gear, but the state map I had with me wasn't going to do a lot of good. After a few minutes of playing with the Blackberry I had found a tiny map and figured out how to get there.

Parking in front of the store in the hot sun, it dawned on me how out of place the leathers must look in a place like this. For most of the trip I had seen other bikers wearing minimal gear, most without helmets. Pulling off my helmet I walked into the cool air conditioning of the store. Yes, I had definitely found the warmth I had been seeking! The sweat trickled down the back of my neck.

There were only two tires in stock that suited my needs and riding style (sport touring with a heavy dose of slab) – Diablo Angel or Pilot Road2. While it was tempting to test out a new tire, and I was very happy with the Diablos that I currently have on my bike, I opted for the proven Road2.

The store manager who had been helping me hesitantly informed me that while they mount tires, they do not remove the wheels from a bike. “No problem, I can do that myself. I have tools with me.” Since the parking lot was devoid of other riders, I pressed on. “Would you mind spotting the bike for me while I center stand it?”

He agreed to this, but looked a little dubious. He was probably wondering how I was going to manage to pull a wheel myself if I couldn't even center stand my own bike without a spotter. As it turned out, I was able to center stand the bike without issue, but I was still leery about having the bike tip away from me when I rock it back onto the stand. Gaining confidence in center standing will just take a bit of practice.

At this point the store manager who was outside with me glanced down at my plate and did a double take. Canada?!?! I think this was the highlight of his day. He told me that I was the first person to pull a wheel in the parking lot of his store since he started managing it, although he had certainly heard of people doing it before. But it seemed to really make his day that the honour was taken by the crazy chick from Canada. He seemed impressed that I was traveling that type of distance solo.

After the wheel was off the bike I gratefully cooled off as I browsed through the air conditioned store. I found something that was to come in very handy during the rest of the trip. A kickstand plate. I had left my block of plywood at home, and had been using convenient rocks to ensure that the dainty tip of the kickstand didn't try to burrow too far into the ground.

The day was heating up rapidly. I partly took my leathers off, leaving them hanging around my waist. It didn't take long for them to mount the tire on the rim, and I set to work reinstalling it on the bike. The manager brought it right out to the bike for me, and helped stabilize the wheel while I got the first few bolts started. I tightened the bolts in the familiar opposing pattern, and wanted to ensure that they would not come loose. I cranked hard on the short handle of the ratchet driver. Click, click, wheeee! The ratchet jumped the teeth as I overpowered it. Hmmm... I guess that one is tight. Luckily the ratchet still worked. I toned it down a bit, but had the same experience on a couple of the other bolts. I adjusted the muffler back into position and tried to position the bolt through the hanger. The manager, who had been standing there watching me stepped forward to lend a hand and supported the muffler. He then disappeared into the store and brought out another socket driver that I could use to make sure everything was tight. Definitely helpful. After pulling the bike off of the center stand and reloading my luggage, I was ready for my morning coffee and to soak down a cooling bandana.

Leaving Bakersfield, I took a small tour of the downtown core until I finally found the highway out of town and struck out across the hot desert landscape. What a change from the day before. I was on my way to Vegas on what was to be the hottest run of the trip. After riding for a few hours, I was ready to pull off the road for something cold to drink. Boron seemed to be a good choice.

I pulled into a town that had obviously seen better days. What had once been a gas station was closed. The signs had been pulled down from the building and old, decrepit vehicles were parked and barricaded in front of the pumps. Across the street another boarded up building sat desolate. All that the picture needed to complete it would have been a tumbleweed blowing down the road. I waited for a moment, camera posed and ready, but the universe wasn't going to make it quite that easy for me. Across the street was a small store – again one that had seen better days. It advertised cold drinks. Out front stood some used furniture that boasted signs advertising that it was for sale. Going inside the store was an odd feeling, almost as if I had stepped into a different time. It was a very odd second hand store. No antiques. Nothing of real value. A set of used glasses sported a $1 price tag. Beside them sat an old stuffed animal that had seen better days. It felt as if I had walked into a depression era store. Dimly lit, warm and stuffy with an ancient air conditioner sitting in a window whining in the background, making little difference. Old things for sale that in better times would have graced the landfill were hopefully displayed on shelves for the price of a dollar or two.

As I stood in front of the small cooler picking out a pop, the proprietor was haggling over an old, small table top barbeque with a customer. Dented and rusted, it sat crookedly on the table. It hadn't even been cleaned before being put up for sale. The princely price of $4 was settled on. It seemed a little surreal that I was part of this as a witness in 2010. Disconcerting for sure.

I paid for my pop and returned to the bike, having had a glimpse of hard times in America. These weren't the first boarded up buildings that I had seen, but they painted a clear picture of a rough economy. The store had been a very unique experience that left me feeling oddly unsettled. Thoughtfully I returned to the bike that seemed so out of place in this town which felt almost of a different era. Very much at odds with the brand new shining Coke machine sitting outside the store that seemed to be out of place.

The next stop for the day was to be Hinkley. It was a warm run through the desert, and I was ready to get off the bike and have a bite to eat. Still had a few miles to cover before that was going to become a possibility, but I was looking forward to it.

Up ahead I noticed a bit of black smoke. It reminded me of a fire I had seen the previous year in Utah where a truck had caught fire at the side of the road. As i approached the smoke, it got thicker and denser. A dark black plume rose high above the road and stretched across the desert. Traffic slowed and stopped. Not a good sign. Up ahead something large was obviously on fire, and the thick black smoke was blocking passage of traffic from either direction.

I put down the kickstand and turned off the bike to wait. After sitting for a while I pulled out my Blackberry to update people where I was, and about the delay. It was very warm inside my leathers, but there was no shade to be found. The sun relentlessly beat down on me. I reached around for my bottle of water. I still had the carabeener clip, but the bottle had apparently opted to take up residence somewhere in the desert. Not a good sign. I sat back down on the bike and hunched over in my leathers, trying to shelter as much of my neck as possible with the helmet.

I looked around at the scenery. Very desolate. It was a desert. Mountains in the distance. Some hardy plants dotted the landscape. But there was little to recommend it. It was a good place to pass through quickly - nothing much of interest. I settled down to wait.

The sound of sirens in the distance prompted me to pull out the camera again. A police car. A fire truck. Followed by a second fire truck. Oh good, some action. It shouldn't take that long for them to put out a small truck fire and get traffic moving on the road once again. How wrong I was.

As I waited I checked the thermometer I had with me. 123F?!? Wow. That's a little warm. Thats 51C. No wonder I was sweating. The leathers were very warm sitting still without any airflow.

I took a few photos of the events unfolding on the road ahead. The blackened skeleton of a Semi sat on at the side of the road obscuring vision of what lay beyond. A helicopter airlifted out a few people on stretchers. It was a scene of controlled chaos.

It wasn't just a truck that had caught on fire. The delay was caused by a serious accident involving the Semi and a few cars. A vehicle had crossed the median, causing a fiery crash. I couldn't get close enough to determine how many cars had been involved, but soberly I contemplated how easily I could have been involved in the accident. Just a matter of timing. Only a few cars were stopped ahead of me illustrating how early I had come upon the scene.

I felt guilty that I hadn't realized what was going on earlier. Maybe I could have done something to help before emergency rescue had arrived - but instead I had been sitting complacently waiting.

By this point two hours had passed. Talking to the police, I determined that the road would be closed for another three or four hours. The fire had raged hot enough that it had even damaged the road surface. A few cars pulled across the rocky median to head back down the 58. There was no way that my bike was going to be able to make it across that. I rode my bike up the shoulder to pull a U-turn where the divided highway joined right in front of where the road was barricaded.

Heading back down the 58 away from Barstow. Away from Vegas. A long detour lay ahead. Hundreds of cars were parked on the road waiting for the 58 to reopen. Obviously nobody had taken the time to close the road or erect any barricades or signs to detour vehicles around the accident. I retraced my steps to the 398 and headed south. Traffic was very heavy, as the detour seemed to be popular. The airflow through the perforations of the suit started to cool me off. I stopped at the first gas station to purchase something cold to drink. I desperately needed it after sitting in the desert heat for hours.

Finally I was able to follow an exit onto the I15. I was once again headed in the right direction. Back towards Barstow. Back towards Vegas. The entire delay and detour had cost me close to five hours in the desert sun. A few days before I had been wondering when I would heat up and find some warmth, it had obviously found me.

I stopped quickly in Barstow for a quick bite to eat, and returned to the road pressing for Vegas. I exchanged a few emails with Aussie who assured me that it didn't matter that I was running late, someone would be up. While I felt bad about the delayed arrival, there was little I could do about it. I told Aussie that I would find a campsite outside of Vegas, but he insisted that I spend the night at his place. This turned out to be a good thing, as running into Vegas I didn't see any signs for campgrounds. I guess everyone is more interested in a hotel on the strip than pitching a tent in the middle of the desert.

As I was getting fatigued, I stopped at a few of the roadside rest stops to get off the bike and stretch my legs. I got a few odd looks from people – not sure if it was the suit, or the way I was dancing around trying to regain circulation.

At times place names amuse me. On the approach to Vegas signs advertise the turnoff for Zzyzx. At times like this I wish that stopping on the interstate to take photos was permissible. I wonder who comes up with these place names?

I find the odd names almost as amusing as “Big Creek”. Everywhere I pass through seems to have two or three “Big Creeks". I have found them in Alberta . British Columbia. Washington. Oregon.... well, you get the picture. Must be one heck of a creek to wind through so many diverse states and provinces!

I passed a number of outlying resorts and casinos that specked the approach. Finally I saw the lights of Vegas in the distance. It surprises me just how large Las Vegas really is. With the help of Aussie's emailed instructions I found his house. I was enthusiastically greeted at the door by Wheatie, Aussie and Mudderduc. A short while later I had wheeled my bike into the garage beside a couple of VFRs, a Ducati Monster and a dedicated track bike and settled down with my sleeping bag on the couch for the night.

[Guest]

Wow, Olive... talk about a rough section! Glad all worked out for you! Here at work... hanging on every word!! :biggrin:

Thanks again!!

[voiceoffire]

Thanks for the stories Olive, reminds me of my trip down to so-cal.

Looking forward to the rest of it as well as you comparison between the two bikes when / if you get to writing that up.

[AussieinUSA]

Looking forward to the rest of it as well as you comparison between the two bikes when / if you get to writing that up.

Funny you should mention that, yeah O whats the deal??

I have the feeling we'll hear about it, occasionally she'll get on a computer and throw some words around.. :biggrin:

[Polarbear]

Girl-- I thought that I was reading Steven King!...of course without the murderous monster-killer creature thing... Really; i was on the edge of my seat giggling like a... well; you get me.

This pic is my fave of this installment.

More small resorts dotted the coastline.

That was the two French guys... Wait, story's not over yet!!! :biggrin:

Good write up Olive, thanks. And great pics, you're talented.

c

PS Now, aren't you glad you listened to your French teachers in school who kept saying you never know when it'll come in handy?!? :fing02:

[dr.toto]

Very good. You have an excellent command of the english language.

[Olive]

I woke up in Las Vegas. On a couch in Aussie's house. It was a very quiet morning. I heard a soft step in the hallway, and got up to greet Aussie who was off to work for a few hours. I settled on the couch with a book and a cup of coffee.

Slowly the house began to wake up. Mudderduc. Tequila Jess (Aussie's niece from Oz) and her sidekick Haulazz Han. K-Special (Aussie and Mudderduc's daughter). Even the infamous Wheatie, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The kitchen became the gathering point as everyone tried to get organized.

The night before there was a flurry of action with discussions of which bags would go in which support vehicle – the last minute planning of a larger enterprise. I laughed as I thought back to my own packing. I grabbed a bag, threw some clothing into it and strapped it on the bike. I probably gave more thought to what I was going to take for tools than I did for the rest of my packing. The night before I left on the trip the zipper on the pouch I had been using for my tool kit decided to split, which meant a quick jaunt out to the dollar store to find a cheap replacement. I've always been leery about riding without tools. There is a very tight limit of what I can actually do with the bike, but as proven last year the bike uses some unusual sizes of Torx which are not readily available. Not even in Aussie's well organized and masterfully equipped garage.

The house was abuzz with activity as bags were moved into respective vehicles, and the girls got ready for the start of their adventure. Mudderduc left a detailed list for Aussie of what was to be packed in coolers for the last support vehicle when Rocketmonkey and his better half RocketD showed up with their truck and trailer combo.

Wheatie packed up the air mattress he had slept on the previous night, and loaded his luggage in the truck, leaving himself with the basics needed for the ride. I kept my luggage with the bike, as everything already had a place, and I was accustomed to riding with the pillion of luggage on back

After everything was loaded into Aussie's truck with Mudderduc and Mrs. Las Vegas at the helm and Aussie's daughter's car, the Austrialian duo piled in and the house was once again quiet. The plan was for the girls to drive out to Kanab via St George where they had a few activities planned including pampering at a spa and power shopping at some outlet stores.

Wheatie disappeared with his car for a few minutes to grab breakfast at a local fast food joint. So I had the house to myself. Well, shared with Daico, the crazy mutt that Aussie and Mudderduc had adopted last year.

After Wheatie returned, I enlisted his help to spot my bike as I put it on the center stand. He provided the audience as I started to get organized to install the new footpeg rubbers. A few days previous I had resorted to the time-honored traditional fix of Gaff Tape to hold the left footpeg rubber on the left footpeg. The rubbers should have been replaced before I left on the trip, because they had deteriorated to the point that they were moving with my foot and was occasionally tripping over the pedal, but with a four to six week order time and a price tag of over $100, I opted for the stateside replacement. Aussie had generously volunteered to check out a solution at the local BMW dealership – next day availability at less than half the price. Sweet! He even picked them up for me and had them waiting in his garage for me. That's the sign of a very good friend!

In the garage, we clipped the power supply onto the cordless drill and discovered that there was no juice. Then we had issues removing it from the drill. Wheatie called Aussie at work and was directed to the good drill that had been left out right beside the footpeg rubbers for our use in plain sight. We were in business. Once Wheatie was satisfied that I had a drill in my hand, and was comfortable lying on the floor, he disappeared inside for his camera. Oh, great... blackmail photos?

With the requisite photo of me laying underneath my bike in the garage taken, Wheatie disappeared inside for a nap. The previous night my arrival had delayed his regular bedtime.

I started drilling at the footpeg rivet. I drilled. And drilled. And drilled. I was a little nervous of snapping a drill bit as there was limited selection. The battery ran out of juice. Hmmm.... I put it back in the charger. Still four rivets to go. A quick call to Aussie revealed the location of the motherlode – a huge boxed selection of drill bits for every task imaginable. Did I mention how well equipped Aussie's garage is?

While I was waiting for the drill battery to recharge, I took a few minutes to clean and detail the bike. It was an entomologists dream, having records of bugs from two provinces and four states. It looked much better once the shine had been restored and the worst of the bug juice cleaned up.

Wheatie took off again to pick up another quick meal at the local fast food place. For a skinny guy he sure eats a lot. So far that day I had drank a few cups of coffee and eaten one nectarine. Wheatie was on meal #2 with more to follow!

Finally, the battery was recharged and I returned to my prone position in the garage. The position that Aussie found me in on his return. The new drill bit made the task much easier. One. Two. Three. Four. Finally the rivets were all removed, and the holes enlarged to allow for the new mounting hardware. A touch of blue loctite and four screws later my bike had fresh rubber on the pegs. Since I had access to a full garage, I borrowed a decent socket wrench that wasn't just barely hanging onto life and verified that the rear wheel and exhaust were tight.

Now that Aussie was back, it was time to load up the bikes with tank bags and luggage. I clipped and strapped all of my luggage on, as Rocketmonkey and RocketD pulled up with their truck and trailered bike. Rocketmonkey had ridden the Vegas through St. George run previously and didn't see the sense in a slab run through the desert when he could get to more interesting roads to be explore in relative comfort. We ran through the list Mudderduc had left, packed the rest of the gear and were ready to set out on another adventure.

Wheatie was stoked about riding the red rocket. You would think that he liked the newer VFRs. He tossed on his new toggs and readied the inaugural trip of his Camelback. I filled up the empty pop bottle that I had adopted as my new water bottle and tucked it into the bunji netting on top of the tent. We were finally ready to hit the road.

The first leg of our tour was a short one, through Vegas to the track. Before you get excited, we were just going to the gas station beside it and to pick up another of our entourage. AVSReid on a Komfort Kruuzer . There is always one in a crowd... a bunch of sport bikes surrounding a luxury couch with radio, cup holder, cruise control and highway pegs. We welcomed him regardless. Both AVSReid and Rocketmonkey were Aussie's trackside pals, so we knew that they could ride, no matter what vehicle they had under them.

Finally, we were off. Down the I15 and across the warm desert. Aussie in the lead on a Silver 5th Gen, followed by Wheatie on a Red 5th Gen, my bike, AVSReid and Rocketmonkey with support vehicle pulling up the rear. Across the desert. It wasn't quite as warm as the previous day, but the hot sun still beat down on the bikes as we navigated around the slower vehicles on the road.

I pulled in front to signal a quick stop in Mesquite where I checked out the contents of my water bottle. A brief visit with the others ensued, and we were off once again. The road opened up into a few twisties coming into St. George, and Aussie and Wheatie took off. I opened it up a bit and found my rear tire wanted to step out. Always an unsettling feeling – but it wasn't my imagination as Mrs. Rocketmonkey had noticed my bike do a sidestep from the comfort of the airconditioned cab. For some reason the new Road2s didn't seem to have the same sticky, secure feel as the previous Diablos.

We wound our way out of Nevada and into Arizona, then Utah. Pulling into St. George for gas, the group also opted for a quick meal – a suggestion eagerly seconded by Wheatie. A burger, fries and cool drink gave us a chance to sit in an air conditioned building for a break. Technology was evident as everyone checked their phones, and we communicated with the AZ group about our arrival plans. Mudderduc was given as the main contact, as she had easy access to a phone in the truck, and was slated to be the first person to arrive, as well as someone with the keys to the condos.

Back on the road, the landscape started to change as we passed through Colorado City, hinting at the famous rock formations that were to be our playground the next few days. Wheatie was having a hard time keeping his eyes on the road with the scenic distractions to be found on all sides.

It's difficult to describe the wild rock formations that greet you in Utah and Arizona. It is as if someone has carved the rocks away into tall walls, and painted them with fabulous colours. Sage greens, dusky reds, warm corals, sandy beiges, saffron oranges, albicant tans and cesious blues towered in layered stripes in the distance. The sandy desert was dotted with struggling bushes and hardy grasses that were growing despite conditions that were not amiable to life. It's a desolate landscape that is filled with the promise of life. One that needs to be experienced, as photos and words are unable to do it justice.

The road crossed the border into Arizona again, with a subsequent return to Utah as we approached Fredonia. Another brief stop to gather up the rest of our group, and we took off on the final short leg into Kanab.

Pulling up at the Condo we were greeted by the Arizona bunch and the special out of town guest they picked up on the way. It was RRW, Badazz, Backdraft and the famed NoMo who had flown in from Atlanta and rented a bike for the weekend! They had found the condos and were parked outside, having stripped off some of their riding gear. Greetings were exchanged as faces were finally put to screen names, and old friends reunited.

Mudderduc showed up with the wild girls in tow and keys for the condos. I headed off with the 'single guys' to the end unit, as the Australian contingent took over the main unit. RRW immediately laid claim to the area behind the dining room table and Backdraft made a beeline for the front bedroom. Wheatie took the other bedroom, leaving the sofa for Nomo, the pullout for Badazz, and the kitchen for me. As I pulled out the mini-air-mattress that served as my sleeping pad, Nomo commented that it looked as if I were trying to give it AR as I slowly pumped air into it. It was small, but provided just enough padding from the hard ground. Once luggage was unpacked, I got to work sorting through ride T-shirts and distributing them to an appreciative audience. We had two varieties of shirt printed up - the dark charcoal and a light grey. Both went over quite well with the group. Something a little out of the ordinary.

Here are a couple of models showing off the shirts. (I still have a couple of shirts available in both colours for sale in larger sizes, PM me for info).

After everyone was settled it was time to pile into the vehicles and head out for dinner. Aussie nominated a restaurant we had been to the previous year. “The one with the chair”. Oddly enough, everyone who had been to BBB previously knew exactly what he was talking about. And those who did not soon discovered it.

Sometimes restaurants are not as good as you remember. This one had changed hands and was no longer table service with a menu, but was a BBQ joint with cafeteria style service. A few people ahead of me placed their orders, and their meat portion was weighed out. It was sold by the pound, and was quite pricey to the disappointment of others. I opted for a small portion and for me it was an economical meal. Given the generous portions at the burger joint earlier in the day I didn't need anything more.

It was back to the condo as BBB kicked into high gear. Beer was broken out, and a few people discovered the semi-complete bar that Aussie had brought with him. Settling in for the night, people began to relax and get to know each other.

Finally the group stumbled off to bed, and AVSReid took off for his hotel room, everyone eager to head out to the Canyon and do some serious riding the following day.

Stay tuned for the next installment!

[Polarbear]

Very good. You have an excellent command of the english language.

Thank you very much sir. .................................................................. oh wait, did you mean Olive? :blink: Sorry....................... :blush: :laughing6-hehe:

c

[Wheatie]

Wow ! Lotsa fun reliving this whole super event through the eyes (pen) of our resident literary giant !!! She's bringing back a lot of fond memories (and some maybe not so fond, as you will no doubt read) of BBB2 .... go girl !!! :cheerleader: