We embraced Big Mike before parting ways, with multiple goodbyes and "I love you man"s. Our time in Frisco was revitalizing on all fronts. Big Mike had the opportunity to touch base with home and show his boys a slice of his present life. We had our batteries recharged, enjoyed new sights and sounds off the bikes, and absorbed the larger-than-life spirit of our host. An energetic exchange, on many levels.
We hit one final cafe for a bite and free wifi (Big Mike's internet was down over the weekend) to plan our next move. We headed back, said goodbye to Maddie (Mikey's canine roommate), packed up and hit the road. We had a late start on the day, and although the mileage wasn't particularly significant, we had a lot of ground to cover traversing the windy passes of the PCH.
As we bid San Francisco adieu, the fog lifted. The PCH was breathtaking. Cruising out of Half Moon Bay (one of the country's largest distributors of organic produce), we saw to our right acres of coastal farmland ceased by cliffs and the oceanic horizon. I was heeding my brother's advice from several days ago, reminding me that despite all that had happened on the east coast over the last few weeks, to just take it all in; it would be over before I knew it. The hours on the bike devoted to relaxing one's attention to simply take it all in has been a marvelous exercise in deep listening - being in a position to receive what resounds outside, and ultimately, disintegrating the boundary altogether.
After winding, ascending, and descending the magnificent cliffs of the Pacific Coast for awhile, we entered woodland - the beginning of Big Sur. The first corner where the trees broke, we saw one of the most spectacular views I have witnessed to date. The mountains rose out of the ocean to our right, and on our left, valleys, rivers, and peaks galore. I could have stayed there for years. Unfortunately, our time was limited as we had a late start on the day. We stopped by the ranger station for directions to Pfeiffer Beach (another Big Mike recommendation). Off 1, it was a narrow and windy wooded descent to the beach parking lot. We hopped off for a few quick pictures, and to see the arch in the rock formation where Big Mike described excitedly his experience of witnessing the setting sun's incandescence. Another amazing beach - but we had miles to go before we slept. As we strolled back into the parking lot, a group of 40s-ish surfer guys were tailgating after a day on the waves. I saw the smirk at the sight of two guys leaving the beach in jeans and leather jackets. One of them said, "yo dudes - you on motorcycles?" "No, we like to hang out at the beach in leather." Fortunately, my joke went over well. They asked where we were coming from, and when we told them about the excellent adventure, we received a "WHOAA! That's heavy!" They could hardly have been more stereotypical, like caricatures from a 90s surfer film; I'm sure we weren't far behind with the "tough guy" motorcycle image, haggard from the road and sporting leather jackets. It was a moment, and it felt good to earn their respect - they already had ours.
At the recommendation of the ranger at Big Sur station, we ventured to Nepenthe, a famous tourist spot, for a bite to eat. I had been turned on to the place awhile back before the excellent adventure was on the horizon, and it was a fantasy come true to be standing on the patio taking in the unbelievable view. We arrived at 4:30, right when they were transitioning to dinner. We would have had to wait a half-hour just to put an order in, which was discouraging - then we caught a glimpse of the prices. Suffice to say, they were out of our range, especially at this leg of the trip. It was discouraging, but we had no choice but to push on.
The exhaustion of hunger pangs were setting in. Fatigue is perhaps the most common source of driver error, and on the cliffed edges we were brushing against, one lazy turn meant a long drop to doom. Big Sur is spectacularly sparse in terms of dwellings and commercial establishments, but when you're hungry, it sucks. I tried to keep my brother's words in the foreground and not let the magnificence of my surroundings be stifled by the demands of the physical, but it was a struggle. We finally found a spot to grab a (pricey) bite, but it had a view of the sunset. The bucolic site of the brilliant orb descending into the Pacific was the most nutritious of soul food. But the moment was interrupted by the realization of the drop in temperature, and the continuation of the windy PCH in the dark. Yikes.
We earned our stripes, and survived the remaining hour of the cliffed coastline in the dark. The waxing moon was overhead - call it superstition, but I feel a sort of lunar magnetism every time I ride under the moonlight, as though the goddess of the dark is safely steering my course. This thought was welcomed at a time where danger was even closer than usual. At the Cambria junction, we bid goodbye to Rt 1, officially changing course eastward as we turned onto 46. In the darkness one could faintly make out what would probably have been a beautiful cruise by day - through hills and past wineries. As the landscape flattened, we saw terror ahead: deep orange bolts on the horizon. We were headed for a thunderstorm.
We were still two hours from our destination, and approaching the storm with undesired swiftness. As we winded a corner, the bolts lit the the darkness up, revealing a field of oil-rig pumps. It was like some mechanistic portrayal of the apocalypse - terror in machine form, conspiring against our co-ed team of man and bike.
We somehow evaded the direct path of lightning, and arrived in Bakersfield unscathed. However, the forecast for the next few days is far from promising.
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