I didn’t get up until around eight. I took another shower just because it was such a fancy bathroom – no crappy home depot bathtub with a plastic curtain at this place. The Best Western Plus in Santa Monica cost more than I wanted to pay but is tres cool. And they give you a discount coupon for the IHOP next door.

 

I rode down Santa Monica Blvd. to the Pacific Coast Highway. I planned to take a selfie or have someone take my picture in front of the Santa Monica Pier. But where the hell was it? I had forgotten to look at the map. I hung a right on the PCH, which turned out to be wrong. Half a block later I spied an empty parking space with the ocean in the background. Screw it. Good enough. I banged a mid-block U-turn and glided right into it.

 

A skinny, sixtyish guy and his wife emerged from the parked car in front of me just as I got off. I buttonholed the husband, gave him the short version of my journey and asked him to take my picture. He was enthusiastic, even venturing into the middle of the road to get a wide shot.

 

He said something then that I think other people on my trip felt, but no one ever put into words: “Thanks for letting me be part of your story.” I thought that was pretty cool.

Then he told me his motorcycle story.

 

A Thwarted Life

 

He had taken the MSF course and gotten his license, but his wife wouldn’t let him have a motorcycle. I hear this repeatedly and it’s sad because it halts a man’s quest for fun, excitement and freedom, if only on the weekends of his life. Worst of all, it’s his life partner, the very person who should support his quest, who grinds it under her heel. God knows the average nine-to-five job offers little fun, fulfillment or excitement; we should be free to pursue those goals in our off time. Never mind that off time is criminally small here in the US.  

I’m very lucky to have a wife who understands. Not long ago someone at our daughter’s school asked her what she thought of me having a motorcycle and going on these trips, and she said “It’s fine. It obviously makes him happy, and I want him to be happy, so if he wants to go, he can go.” Yep, she’s a keeper.

 

I lingered near the bike walk in Santa Monica, enjoying the breeze and remembering the brief time I lived in Mar Vista, not too far from Venice Beach, circa 1989. Fleeing the blast furnace of a Texas summer and the smoldering ruins of my academic career, Los Angeles was for me, like many people, a place to start over. Thanks for that, Los Angeles. And San Francisco. And Tokyo. Long story.

 

Just Like Old Times

 

Continuing on the PCH I motored briskly through Malibu and points north, enjoying the view and the breeze, and thanking my 1989 self for moving out here. So many good things had happened since then that would never have materialized had I stayed in Dallas. For one thing, I never would have met my old buddy Joe, whom I planned to meet in Santa Barbara for lunch today. Joe and I met and worked together at a newspaper in Westchester County, New York, but our common history went farther back. Both of us had lived in Japan (he in the Navy, I a civilian), and at different times we both worked with author and longtime Tokyo resident Mark Bossingham. Joe and Mark worked in Navy journalism together, and Mark and I both worked at the Asahi Shimbun’s English-language daily, the now-defunct Asahi Evening News. Joe now works the news desk at the Santa Barbara paper.  He took a long lunch so we could catch each other up on the last few years. It’s always great to see Joe because we are able to pick up the thread and talk like we had just seen each other yesterday. However, he had to get back to work and I wanted to get on the road so he gave me some tips for nice roads towards the interior and sent me on my way.

 

According to Aaron, the newspaper’s security officer, the best road to get me over the mountains towards Death Valley would be to take 101 back south to 150, and pick up 33 near Ojai.

 

Finally, It's Legal

 

On my way back south on 101, I got stuck sitting in traffic. Then a motorcycle came up behind me and went on by, splitting the lanes. That’s right, I thought, it’s legal here! I had completely forgotten. I checked my mirror and pulled out, putting slowly along that sweet, sweet spot between the lanes, so tempting and so illegal back home. The nice part was that no one cared. Do this in Philadelphia and you will send more than a few drivers into a frothing rage. Why they get so angry over something that hurts them not at all I have no idea. Maybe it’s because as a motorcyclist I’m already enjoying myself, which annoys them.

 

Bypassing a traffic snarl that they can’t avoid is just too much for them to take. They should chill out and get a bike.

State Highway 150 also goes by the name of Rincon Rd. where it crosses US 101. I  passed through some built-up areas before I made it to the fun parts. The map showed an interesting route --  Chismahoo Road, which is also Forest Road 4N05, goes through some real back country. I figured the road was too rough for my bike.  

 

Thirty-three is an absolutely beautiful ride, and traffic (April, mid-week) was a non-issue. The road curves and undulates, with enough surprises that you shouldn’t do too much gawking.