Day 4

Recovering from Day 3.  Pics of Day 3 later when I have time.

Ironman The Movie is fricking cool.  I have not had so much fun watching a movie in forever,  (or since Batman Begins).

Day 2

Sleep.

"You may think you're headed off on some great adventure.  But I've got news for you."

More sleep.

Day 1

Still without a plan, I pushed the "on" button on the coffeemaker and plopped blearily down in front of the laptop.  Google Maps.  Where haven't I been.

I've been along the coast; I've been up to 's Barbara, I've been down to Santa Monica, and everywhere in between.

There's some stuff by Santa Clarita I haven't seen though, so that's where to head.  I downed my coffee, zipped into the textiles, and trotted off to the carport.

Mm, this feels good.  The half helmet will be an experiment.  I picked this thing up last week so I could put on and take off a helmet without removing glasses.  It works for that purpose; but an unexpected side effect is that I feel I've taken the blindfold off.  I can SEE everywhere, and the little retractable sunshield shades the upper half of my face protecting my eyes from bugs, if not my teeth.

I rolled out onto the freeway, headed east into the wrack of building gray clouds.  I hope it doesn't rain.  I'm NOT interested in experimenting with how heavy drops of water feel on my face at 60 mph.  It's not supposed to rain.  This is California, it won't, can't rain.

...won't rain...

...And it didn't. I was spat upon twice, but it never rained and I broke out into the sunshine at Castaic Lake with nary a welt on my chin.  The chosen route was Lake Hughes Road, a curving highway slicing off into the Angeles Forest.  It winds, winds, long 45 mph sweepers, hither and yon as the canyons deepen and the mountains begin to lose themselves in cloud.  Before long I was slithering along sheer rock faces, striated in strange volcanic patterns broken by stark poles of charcoal where redwoods had once been. "Maintain Defensible Area" signs admonished homeowners to keep a firebreak around their property.  The pavement was rough and shook the V-strom's suspension mercilessly; the road was evidently not well traveled and not a subject of taxpayers' money.  I arrived at Lake Hughes, a small town with a big saloon around which the local Nissan 300ZX racing club had gathered, t-shirts, mohawks and all.

The subsequent three hours were spent exploring a road called Bouquet Canyon road.  This road is a trickster.  You begin at the beginning, become lost in its beauty and at the end it dumps you right out where you started, in my case Lake Elizabeth (yes, Elizabeth, there is a lake named after you.  It's a resort, really, and a pretty posh one at that).  

I returned via the way I came on Lake Hughes Road.  Five hours is a bit much for one day's loop of pure riding with no real destination, eh?

Memorial Day Weekend coming up.  Where to go, where to go.

It is about going. The thought of staying at home is, of course, inadmissible.  Heck even last year I found myself blearily fingering my keys between bites of late breakfast.

In fact, Memorial Day this year marks the first anniversary of First Long-Ass Ride.  The epic crosscountry of a month later was only a gleam in my eye; I had to find out first if I could actually handle twelve hours in the saddle.

So the PCH was the logical proving ground.  Had never been there, was long, and was convenient.  I left at 9 am and flogged north to a little town called, oh what was it called. And then I turned around and came back and all I came out with was numb hands and a sore neck. The experiment was a success, and I decided that I could handle whatever I could be reasonably expected to throw at myself in the way of endurance attempts.

And Highway 1 is of course the most gorgeous highway in my little world and provided ample material for reflection upon the heroics of the veterans of the Second World War, particularly those assigned to the defense of the West Coast and more generally those in the Pacific Theater.  One looks at the big rocks with velvety green grass, the nestled houses, and reflects upon the homes in a beautiful land which perhaps was the only thing keeping some boys marching....to protect this beauty from an evil foe.....

So, where to go, ...... hmm......

Another long surreal stretch of freeway lies behind me, it is late at night, I am back in my hot dry apartment and it is time to sleep.

I wish the dude at the machine shop would call me back and tell me that he hates Japanese four-cylinder, 16-valve motors and that I should have known better than to bring him the piece of shit to fix.  And tell me to take it somewhere else.

As it stands, I'm going to have to draw it out of him.  I give him till Wednesday.  If he does not call me back on Wednesday,  I call him and ask if he can fix it or what, if he doesn't want to fix it, it's all cool JUST LET ME SODDING KNOW!  I DON'T HAVE all summer. Well I do, but that's not something I should think about....

"F--- it, Dude, let's go bowling."

- Walter, "The Big Lebowski"

For sale; baby shoes, used once.

 - Ernest Hemingway

Skid marks next to the heavy padlocked chain indicate the slipperiness of the carport floor.  Spatters of wax are scattered along the floor, in a line with the rear wheel.  I meditate upon the motorcycle-chain links running along as I spin the rear wheel around, spraying the chain with an aerosol can, adding to the layers of wax on the floor....Hemingway, Papa Hemingway, the master of the art of concise.  What I wouldn't give to have a bit of directness in MY style...

"Hence the simple assertion that Hegel denies the principle of non contradiction gives a quite inaccurate view of the situation. What Hegel does is give a dynamic interpretation of the principle in place of the static interpretation which is characteristic of the level of understanding.. This principle operates in dialectical thinking but it operates as a principle of movement." A History of Philosophy, Vol. 7 Frederick Copleston, S.J.