Day 3 – To Lincoln City

Day 3 – To Lincoln City

N44º 59.100' W124º 00.805'

2009/07 - Busting Out of California
1 August 2009 in Alessandro, California

Ride. Eat. Sleep. Ride. Eat. Sleep. This is the dynamic of my current existence. And that’s not an exaggeration.

Despite having set the alarm for 6am, I don’t actually wake up until 7am. Nine hours of blissful, restful sleep is a wondrous thing. I should really do that more often. Such a pity that the grey matter between my ears so often defies me in that regard, but that is my own set of complex neuroses, and we shan’t be diagnosing those now.

My entire day today is structured around one cup of coffee. Where I stayed last night, and where I stay tonight, are defined by their relative proximity to this very same cup of joe. Not too far from here, over a river, through the woods, with nary a grandmother in sight, lies the Signature Coffee Company of Redway, California. Roasters of the best, the superlative, the quintessentially and definitively most wondrous, exceptional and ultimate java on the planet. A cup of coffee so rich, so dark, so intense, they call it ‘Black Thunder’. And it rocks. (Reminds me of a line I once read: I like my women like I like my coffee; hot, dark and bitter).

Out the door at 7:30 and into a grey drizzle, the only ones about are me and the sorry bastards that have been hauled out of bed to walk their dogs. Breakfast doesn’t even start being served until 8am, so I’ve made do with a cup of hotel-room-coffee-maker joe to tide me over, and get on the highway. Alessandro is running wonderfully. They may not have found a specific problem, but whatever they did made a huge difference… I don’t think he’s ever run this smoothly. At this time of the morning, the roads are open, the traffic is light, and we make good time through Fort Bragg.

This can only be a good thing. Fort Bragg is one of those towns (although I suppose it’s a city) that could have launched the literary careers of a thousand Arthur Millers, Tennessee Williams and Norman Mailers. It’s the sort of place that gives the impression of hiding its troubles beneath a surface veneer of neighbourly good humour during the summer months , only to unleash an oozing miasma of hate, anger and frustration out of the cracks of its pavement once the tourists and cottage-goers have left. It really, really isn’t a pretty town. Especially on a grey Saturday morning, when one can only imagine the collective populace nursing its hangovers and hiding its bruises behind a veneer of lace, clapboard and gingerbread. Of course, I may also just have far too vivid an imagination. Nonetheless, I pass through as quickly as Alessandro will take me.

The beauty of an early morning on the coast.

The beauty of an early morning on the coast.

The blessing here lies on the other side. As Fort Bragg recedes in the distance, and the countryside opens up, the sun emerges, the fog begins to lift and the road dries.  Not a moment too soon, as ahead of me is 22 miles of glorious, sinuous roadway that weaves its way over hills and around redwoods, from the coast to Highway 101.I had been anticipating this stretch of highway since I left home, and dreading it since yesterday. After the experience on the coast, I wasn’t sure how I was going to make out navigating hairpin after hairpin. Today, however, Alessandro is in his element. We lunge from bend to bend, the engine growling with an eager burble that demands respect. I’ve discovered that for any bend 20mph and under (and most of these turns are signed for this or less) he hugs the road in first gear, and wallows in anything higher. 35mph and first gear, mind, but first gear nonetheless. The trick — and I’m only sad I didn’t figure this out yesterday — is to keep him high in the rev range. From there, any adjustment in speed is readily on tap with a twist of the wrist. It feels like the throttle is directly connected to the rear wheel. Fun does not begin to describe it.

Something close to a pot of gold!

Something close to a pot of gold!

My friend Breton sent an email to me thanking him for referring him to a 10 mile stretch of highway in southern Montana that it took him three hours to ride to from Missoula. Buddy, have I got a road for you. When we’re in Mendocino in November, we are going for a Black Thunder run one morning. Anyone else wants to join us, they’re welcome, but they’re gonna need some exceptional motorcycle skills, intestinal fortitude and a propensity for not screaming like a girl when the edge of the road just beyond their wheel drops into nothingness. As Dianne commented on our drive through a couple of weeks ago, “This would be a great place to hide a body.”

Emerging from the redwoods, it was time for breakfast. A little further up the highway lies Redway, and my first destination of the day. Only the coffee company was closed. Apparently, because they’re a roastery more than they’re a retail location, they only open during the week. Sobbing back a cry of frustration (must not cry like a girl) I returned to the highway and continued up the coast. Not to self: If you’re going to arrange your entire day around a cup of coffee, make sure the place is open first.

That front would stay along the coast all day.

That front would stay along the coast all day.

Fortunately, I was able to get a cup of Black Thunder in Trinidad, so all was not completely lost. And the carrot cake with caramel icing was a delightful fringe benefit that was all the more welcome for being unanticipated. Filled up, gassed up, and with caffeine flowing once again in my veins, I returned to the road and continued my journey.

Umm... I think we ran out of road here.

Umm… I think we ran out of road here.

The rest of the trip was for the most part both enjoyable and uneventful. The only traffic that held me up to any real degree was a posse of Harley riders that desperately cling to the fantasy that they ride really fast, despite their ability to do so only when the road is dead straight. Passing six of them at a go, however, is a challenge, and eventually I gave up and picked them off in ones and twos. They weren’t really happy about a Ducati in their midst, but they also weren’t able to keep up with me, so I’m not going to worry the point.

A poor, lonely cloud lost and separated from its friends...

A poor, lonely cloud lost and separated from its friends…

I made it to Lincoln City at 7pm, and checked into the Starfish Manor hotel, the same place that Dianne and I had stayed in. It was great to get off the bike, although I was actually far less stiff and sore than I had been yesterday. 782 kilometres (488 miles), 11.5 hours, 11.61 gallons (pretty good fuel economy) and 5.5 litres of water (yes, Breton, that’s 5.5 litres) later, I had arrived at my destination. Just in time to clean up, get changed and head to my dinner reservation. And then bed. For tomorrow, I ride once again.

Awfully romantic, but a bit over the top for one. I just don't see myself that way...

Awfully romantic, but a bit over the top for one. I just don’t see myself that way…

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