black chevrolet

"Ok, for god's sake, youre going to get up at 5:45 AM in the morning and try to make early Mass in Pasadena so you can be that much further along on this gas-wasting, timewasting entirely unnecessary diversion of yours?  It's just another twisty scenic road, ok, you know the type.  Mountains.  Rocks.  Sagebrush.  Trash, lots of trash.  Graffiti. What exactly again are you looking for here?  What's different about this one?"

Difference? What difference? There isn't any, if your asking me to quantify it in color or temperature or solitude or lack thereof.  But it's a road I haven't seen yet.  Okay I admit, those roads are getting further and further from my radius of operations.  But California Highway 18 is another legend of motorbikers, tourists and (firemen) that I haven't seen yet.

So do I really need to think twice?  It means I nix whatever I'd be doing to Suzi's guts over the weekend, but I've given up the idea of getting her back together by August.  And I only live once and I only have gas money once, so is there really a contest here?

Not really.  And I can get away with early Mass at TAC if I hurry afterwards.

The next morning was cool and foggy.  A bit of surreality that always makes the (hurried) cruise down the 126 a trip through fantasyland.  The breath of the leftover irrigation mists cloud the celery fields; mixing with the upper airs to cloak the mountain shoulders hither and yon.  I glide on along the empty ribbon of asphalt, v-twin in its happy-zone, humming to itself in its peaceful refrigerator hmm.  All manner of smells flow by along my face: the everpresent citrus, blended to the everpresent sage and tumbleweed (yes, tumbleweed smells) and the occasional whiff of plowed dust, ash and diesel smoke.  Nutshells, onions and porta-potties, palm oil and lavender oil, adobe tile and citrus again, citrus and more citrus....

I swear half the scenery is smells.  You, dear reader, unless you ride a motorcycle, have no frickin' clue what I'm talking about.  But trust me, it's good.  (Has a tendency to crowd out all those gremlins that find a clench-hold, you see, in the consciousness over a stressful week.  They can't stand up to the deluge of sensations)

Uahum, freeway.  Out of the zone.  It was nice while it lasted but the onramp levers me gently into the teeth-rattling, turbulent reality of battling for my position in the left lane.  People, people everywhere encased in steel and plastic boxes - Toyota Camrys, Ford F150's, Dodge Cummins Turbodiesels, BMW 750iLs.

Two hours ensue.

I almost miss the offramp.  Then I do miss the offramp, chiding myself for falling asleep at the handlebars.  But the mistake was easy to correct, and underpass and an invigorating merge later I am headed back in the right direction.  The I-15 looms ahead and I arc off, northbound.

Wow.  Boats.  Boats everywhere.  I feel like I'm on the river.  Jeweled dashboards and salty hulls in every direction.....offramp, offramp to the 138, anyone?  Could you move away so I can see the roadsigns?