Winter Light

It’s 2pm in the afternoon and as I watch the sun start its rapid winter season descent, I find myself consciously thinking that this is one of those rare days where I need a table of contents just to organize my own thoughts.

At this point I’ve been on the 999 for almost six hours straight. Six splendid, amazing, and empty hours when all I’ve had are my thoughts and the knowledge that today started out just like any other day and then turned into something completely unique all by itself.

When I swung my leg over the Duc this morning I had no idea I’d end up here. 200 miles away from home in New Cuyama, California, sitting on the edge of the Central Valley, looking at slice of life and a landscape that time has never changed.

The short version is that it’s been a BMW day on a Superbike ride. One long curvy canyon of a loop that has led me here – to pristine cowboy countryside that time has forgotten. If an 1890’s Stagecoach rolled by right now I wouldn’t even blink. Amidst the Ansel Adams clouds and the rolling tumbleweeds there’s a certain kind of calmness that you can just feel. A calmness that I truly needed.

Of course in reality it’s been far more than just a long sport-touring ride. It’s been an adventure. A personal exploration into a gorgeous land and a journey into my own soul. Ultimately today has been unique for the simplest of reasons. Because it just happened. I had no plan, I had no map, and I right now, sitting here in New Cuyama I have no clue that I will eventually travel just over 350 miles in roughly nine hours and never think twice about it until I get off the bike when I’m back home.

The SoCal Canyon Loop ( Approx. Time: 9 AM to 6 pm, Approx. Mileage: 350+)

PCH Route 1 North to Latigo Canyon

Latigo Canyon to The Mullhulland Highway

Stop in Malibu for coffee, head up the PCH into Ventura County and take the 101 North

Take Route 33 North, which runs through Ojai, California and head up and over the Topa Topa Mountain Range and into the Los Padres National Forest

Roughly 60 miles later enter the southern edge of The Central Valley and head West on Route 166 towards New Cuyama

Eventually Route 166 hits Santa Maria, California and the 101 Freeway

Heading South on the 101, made a quick exit on Palmer Canyon Road

Took Palmer Canyon to Foxen Canyon Road

Foxen Canyon Road eventually intersects Route 154 “The San Marcos Pass”

Take Route 154 into Santa Barbara, California

In Santa Barbara, hit the 101 and head South

Got off at Rice Ave and headed towards the PCH

PCH Route 1 South, from Point Magu to Santa Monica

At 8am this morning I never would have imagined that this sort of ride was possible. The sky was dark. The clouds were lining up to dwell. And I felt the pressure of the workweek crushing me in a multitude of directions.

It all started out innocently when I walked into the office and surprisingly nothing was going on. So I did something that I’m always talking about but rarely if ever actually doing. I time shifted my weekend.

I suppose that in today’s world time shifting has two very different connotations. On a very personal level its psychobabble for mentally moving your mind forwards or backwards in time to events that you either can’t control yet or can no longer change. Yet in a different light there’s the concept of time shifting your actual ‘time’. In this case since I’m scheduled to work all weekend I thought why not get a ride in today if nothing is going on??

Little did I know that what started out, as an idea to ride the canyons would turn into an all day adventure that still has me charged up…

Around 9AM I was shooting up Latigo Canyon when I was overcome with a craving for more coffee. On most days I’m quite the caffeine freak, but usually riding supersedes the desire. But not today… By the time I worked my way up to the top of the canyon I was dead set on finding another cup. Strange as that sounds, the desire for more coffee forced the first in several choices that eventually sent me half way around the world. Somehow I got the notion that the easiest place to pick up another cup would be the Starbucks in Malibu by Trancas Canyon.

Had I really needed that cup I guess I could have headed down Kanan Dune and shot up the coast from there, but instead the only obvious solution that came to mind was to ride further and faster across The Mullhulland Highway. So minutes later I found myself flying around the last few corners on what is quite literally the last real canyon road until you get way up North and feeling uneasy with already having gotten that far up the coast. Somehow it seemed too early to be that far away. And as I started backtracking towards civilization in order to grab more coffee, I felt a nagging feeling that the day simply wasn’t over. By the time I got off the bike at the Starbucks the concept of ending the day this soon seemed flat out sacrilegious.

Inside Starbucks I stand in line dressed in my full leathers with a bunch of proto-typical Malibuians. There’s the gray haired polo shirt guy with his collar raised up around his neck who looks like he’s just gotten off Ted Turner’s America’s Cup Yacht. Two tables away sits a wantabe North Hollywood gal with the required nose piercing but none of the tats and a upper anatomy text book. Behind the counter is a blonde surf dude who’s slinging the coffee like his life depends on it. Showing an amazing amount of desire for someone who looks like they just rolled out of bed. Standing next to him is a midget. A full-fledged miniature person, no joke. At this point I fully expect to see Jose Canseco walk in the shop any minute with the next season’s Surreal Life crew in tow. Instead I’ll have to settle for the two mid aged yoga woman who burst through the door with no pause in conversation or lowering of their volume level. As I walk up to order my coffee I realize that I probably look pretty odd for this crowd. Even though it’s Malibu and people ride bike here all the time, most folks don’t show up dressed in full race leathers. At that moment I become somewhat self aware and notice that everyone’s eyes are fixated on my ‘look’, which of course strikes me a bit odd since their ‘look’ is anything but ‘normal’. Floating through my mind, I vaguely remember Melissa Holbrook Pierson in her book ‘The Perfect Vehicle’ calling a riding outfit a person’s ‘costume’ and somehow that seems rather appropriate since it’s only been a few days since Halloween.

Leaving the joint, I see the first bike of the day when a dude on an SV650 zips by me in the parking lot. No wave, no look, no notice. And like that he’s gone in a flash.

Back on the bike I decide to head back up the coast. Just before I hit the intersection of the PCH with The Mullhulland Highway, it occurs to me that I’ve just been on that road and I’ve also ridden it quite a lot lately. Maybe I need something different. Something more out of a ride.

Seconds later I fly right by the turn and head straight up the coast. It’s a decision on a whim. Nothing more, nothing less.

Yet even though it’s early, I feel wickedly alive in this amazingly renewed sense. As if I’d slept for months straight and just happened to be in the saddle of a sportbike when I finally woke up. I’m barely awake yet somehow it’s already clear that riding is in the air. Riding the Ducati today is going to be good.

Swing around the giant sweepers by Pt. Magu, I can’t help but wonder if I’m simply reacting to the curse of the weekday ride. When you head out on the weekends on any sort of usual schedule, there’s a certain ebb and flow that you learn to understand. Yet today with the rest of the world stuck at work, it’s hard not to feel invigorated by the sense of seclusion. The sense of mystery is being alone and yet out on the road.

Something clearly is clicking inside my head because I’ve been on the bike for almost two hours and I’ve seen one other motorcyclist. Just one! It’s astonishingly quiet. There’s simply a lack of cars and even fewer mountain bikes or people. This is canyon and coastal life at its slowest.

Eventually I make my way to the 101 and head North. I suppose I could have looped back South and head towards the canyon roads again, but really what fun would that have been? Don’t get me wrong I enjoy riding around the Ventura County countryside because the farmland look is a relative departure from what I used to looking at in the canyons, but it’s not exactly sporty riding. It’s touring. Now there’s nothing wrong with that, but there’s also nothing explosive about it either. Knowing that I’m half way to Ojai and it’s still relatively early, I figure why not ride up and taste a bit of Route 33? What’s the harm?

Just after I get off the 101 and head North on the beginning portion of Route 33, I find my mind drifting to a conversation that I had last week with a friend of mine over dinner. My friend and I were shooting shit about bikes when they asked the simplest of questions, ‘why do you write your blog?’

At the time it seemed like a rather innocent question and as I think back on our conversation that evening, I’m not quite sure I gave a particularly good response. I suspect that my inability to answer the given question was simply because I’d never thought to ask it. I was relatively caught off-guard and since that night, have been wondering if it’s possible to blog for this long and have never asked yourself why you do it?

Subsequently I’ve wondered if this is in fact the middle life crisis for a blog, when you become self aware and wonder for the first time, why on earth are you posting all of this information about yourself over and on the internet???

I pondered the question while filling up the Duc’s tank at the 76 Station in Ojai proper – the last gas station in sight before you enter the Los Padres National Forest.

As the blog conversation progressed that particular evening my friend described a poll he’d seen recently seen that stated that most bloggers fall into two basic camps; either they write a blog on a given subject because they’re hell bent on having people listen to their opinions or they blog on an subject matter that’s intensely personal to them and one that they wish they could perform or comment on professionally. Now clearly any poll that breaks down the millions of people who are actively blogging has to have several dozen shades of gray, but as I’ve spent the last several days thinking this over, the basic logic seems rather plausible. I doubt most people blog in order ‘not’ to be heard.

I would assume that most people start blogs purely for fun. Maybe they enjoy writing or php scripting, or maybe it’s the possible interaction with other people out on the net. I imagine there are hundreds or maybe even thousands of possible rationales for why people think blogging is enjoyable and I would be amazed if the majority of bloggers would turn down the opportunity to blog professionally. I’d guess that eighty or ninety percent of the blogs that I read tend to be so personal that it’s hard to imagine that someone wouldn’t want to get paid or acknowledged to write what they feel or think or believe. Besides, compared to the real world there’s no evil empire to fight.. There’s no hellacious boss, no manic co-workers to deal with, no real pressure, and certainly little if no deadlines to meet. It’s just you, your website and your opinion. The rest is up to other to judge.

Hitting the initial portion of Route 33 as you head out of Ojai on a motorcycle makes you realize what a charmed life you happen to lead if you’re on two wheels. It’s a challenging combination of corners that swept and tighten and let themselves out all before your eyes in an amazingly rapid succession as you quickly ascend up the Topa Topa Mountain range while you’re constantly forced to orchestrate your bike in harmony with the road.

Few California rides in my opinion offer as much beauty, technical challenge and absolute diversity as this ride. It’s truly one of the great wonders of the world in my book. By the time I swing around the first major switchback I can’t help but be curious as to why I’m the only one out here enjoying the most pristine asphalt playground around..

Twenty minutes later I’m a good portion of the way up the face of the mountain range and the topography has radically shifted. The soft tumbleweed exterior has quickly vanished and been replaced by a pine tree skyline and a much more mountainous façade. Suddenly I’m coming around corners and doing double takes, feeling fairly certain that the same look and feel might well exist on The Angeles Crest or somewhere out by Mammoth.

But then ten minutes later I hit one of the last big straights on what I believe might be the front side of the range and enter a rather hard sweeping left hander. This corner sends me downhill, past several road construction sites, and into a valley of burnt ashes. Trees that used to be living are now charred ruins of what they once where. The scenery quickly dissolves and what had been life vanishes. It’s desolate and yet somehow replenished. I have no idea when the last fire ripped through here, but it’s been awhile and somehow life has started to come back. It’s not a lot, but its there if you look hard enough for it.

A couple of corners later I realize that I may not be as alone as I thought I was. Pickup trucks line the turn offs at several corners and as I enter a gigantic sweeping left hander, I notice two men standing near a white Chevy K series who are holding shotguns and dressed in camouflage gear. This slightly worries me. This seems more hickish than I think I might care to deal with right now. And at this point I’m radically firing through the valley at anywhere between seventy and a hundred miles per hour. From my quick glances at the periphery I’m pretty sure I’m the only moving target and that doesn’t make me feel very secure..

At this point the trip-meter is reading forty miles since I filled up the tank in Ojai and I haven’t seen one green CalTrans signs that states how far away I am from civilization. The little voice in the back of my head starts to shriek. Doing the quick math I figure I’ve got about 10 more miles to figure out how close I am to life before I’ve got to turn around and head back to Ojai. Otherwise I’m pretty sure I’m not going to make it on my tank of gas. These days I’m usually getting around 100 miles per tank. But out in the middle of nowhere I’m pretty sure that if I run out of fuel no one will find me for days. This line of think of course leads me directly to, ‘if I lay the bike down and get hurt, nobody is going to find me either’.. And that makes me wonder why I never had those thoughts on the Beemer.

Ten miles later I head up a major incline and come upon a large dirt turn off area. This seems like a good spot to pull off and regroup. To figure out once and for all where the hell I think I might be and which way I need to go. Of course the nagging voice in the back of my head has shut up and I’m starting to really worry that I might be screwed. I’m standing on the edge of a mountain and surrounded by nothing but natural beauty with no clue where I am or how far it is back to a working gas station pump. To be perfectly blunt, I’m not even sure when I’m going to see another person at this point. That’s how far away from life this place feels.

Peering off the edge of the cliff opens my eyes to new possibilities. There’s not only a valley with more twisting, curving roads, but also an entirely endless vista of valley after valley after valley that all lead up to a horizontal line of asphalt. It’s remarkable. The road sticks out in the countryside view like water in a desert. I can’t help but notice that there’s life on the other side of this ridge! There’s a road! I’m miles away, but somehow liking my odds for survival.

So I go for it. I ride the rest of Route 33. Tank of gas be damned!

Heading down the back portion of 33 is an exercise in controlling my fear of running out of fuel, my internal curiosity towards where I might be headed and my wonder as to where the next most logical location for a gas station might be.

Yet somehow amidst all of this internal strife I still find time to fall in love with the corners. And by corners I mean heart pounding, wide open, just you and the road entanglements where you wonder just how much more spectacular the road can get. This isn’t just a ride; it’s full-blown entertainment for the soul. I have been ripping up the road and cornering like a madman for miles and miles and miles of twisting, curving, amazingly solemn like asphalt. It’s unbelievable. If only racetracks had this sort of visual diversity..

Coming down the backside of 33 the reason why I blog finally dawns on me..

On a very basic level I blog because it’s a scrapbook. Every ride I’ve taken over the past year and three quarters is detailed. It’s described, enjoyed and commented on in a very in the moment manor. I can go back and count them, re-read them, re-live them. I can look at the pictures in context as opposed to simply opening up a photo gallery and trying to recall how a particular day felt.

Yet on a secondary level, I blog because I enjoy the specific activities that are involved, such as riding the Duc, computer scripting, creative writing and still or motion photography. At one point or another I’ve worked at any one of these activities by themselves, yet here with the blog I get to combine them all together. It just happens to be a unique place where they all work in harmony in a very creative way.

One step further back, I suspect I blog because I greatly enjoy the interaction with other riders. I find it fascinating to read or hear about what other riders think or feel on a given subject. I’m not always the best at responding to email – usually because I’m tied up doing something else, but the fact that I can communicate with other riders around the world and never meet them is simply an outright curiosity to me.

Finally there’s the reality that when all is said and done writing about motorcycles is pure fun. The kind that isn’t compromised by work, advertising, higher ups, other people’s opinions, or other requirements. It’s just what it is and that’s somehow enough. I’d say I’d do it for free but I already do so I’m exactly sure what that proves other than to say that there’s something magical for me about writing about what you’re passionate about in life. Now I’m passionate about other things, but this is the ‘one’ if you know what I mean… Whether others find value in the writing is a completely subjective activity and one that I have no control over nor one I really want to have control over. I publish what amounts to a very personal scrapbook on a very public platform and it’s in a very niche genre. Italian Sportbikes. If you’re into American Cruisers I suspect you’ll read other blogs and that’s just fine with me.

This seems to beg the question, am I one of those people in the poll who aspires to blog and/or write professionally? In essence am I kidding myself in the real world, should I simply turn off the blog, print up some resumes and try to work my way into the moto-journalist world?

At the end of Route 33 I hit a crossroads. Two very divergent paths that lead in two altogether different directions. If I head to the right, I’ll eventually hit Interstate-5 and Bakersfield. The magical green CalTrans sign says that I-5 is only 35 miles away. Reading the trip-meter I’m pretty sure I can make it that far and my guess is that I’ll probably hit a gas station there. Of course that means I’m heading East, away from the coast and away from home. That doesn’t sound like such a hot plan. If I head to the left, I head back towards the coast, but the only recognizable town is Taft and it’s 46 miles away. I’ve got no idea how large Taft is, only that it’s 46 miles away from where I am. Looking around there’s not much to see. This is rustic, wide open California cattle country at it’s finest. No homes, no trucks, not people. But I’ve come this far by winging it.. So what the hell, I turn left. There’s got to be a gas station on Route 166, right?

As it turns out riding through the middle of nowhere gives you quite a bit of time to thinking things over – like your future – and the longer the ride goes on the more I realize that I have no desire to try and become a full time moto-journalist. Oh, I enjoy writing reviews for people here and there and dabbling in it, but it’s not my calling.. That lies somewhere else. But I do enjoy the blog. Are those things in contradiction with one another?

Rolling down 166 is a rather unique experience. For the first time all day there’s other traffic. Most of it is large 18-wheeler type trucks. Two bikes pass by heading in the other direction. One is a Beemer, the other some Japanese tourer. Neither seems out of place. The Ducati does. This isn’t what it was built for. Long, relatively straight roads in farm country. Riding 166 I vaguely remember riding here several years back on my old Beemer. Back then this road was a hoot. Now it’s more of a chore to get from one exquisite curvy paradise to another. But the vistas are definitely pretty and it takes little imagination to find yourself thinking of turn of the century California. It’s also windy. Blow you across the lane windy. The kind off wind that makes you wonder if being out on the wild western frontier was really peaceful or just plain dirty with the constant dust.

As I roll past Cuyama, California I’m somehow reminded of an LA Times column I read a few days ago by Michael Hiltzik which was titled, ‘Experiment Starts Now: Call Me a Blogger’. Hiltzik writes the Times Golden State column a couple of times a week and evidently has decided to start his own LA Times supported blog. What caught my eye was Hiltzik’s contention that blogging is headed for a Gawker styled future. Whereby blog labels will pop up – much like music labels – in order to support and promote certain types of blogs because his belief is that the world is simply to big and the blogging universe to large to adequately allow a normal reader to find all the blogs that might be of interest to them.

Personally I find this hypothesis fascinating because if it comes to pass it offers one more example of how when new things pop up – in this case blogs, but in other eras perhaps cars, airplanes, computers or even the plain old cheeseburger – what the end user or consumer really seems to want is some sort of basic standardization that tells them that it’s ok to do, buy or read something. Take Starbucks for example, all sorts of people might criticize them for their uniformity these days, but far more people enjoy the fact that no matter where they are they can order the same cup of coffee with the same muffin and taste the exact same thing. Perhaps all coffee before Starbucks stunk or maybe they just had an amazing marketing campaign when they got started, but for whatever reason people find comfort in their brand name. They don’t call it getting coffee; they call it getting Starbucks.

By 3pm there’s a little voice in the back of my mind telling me that this was a horrible idea.. The Duc’s been running on fumes for the past ten miles and there’s no gas station in sight. Matter of fact there isn’t much in sight. Cuyama has been a big bust as far as I’m concerned. It’s the middle of nowhere that nowhere forgot.

But then I roll on a bit further and hit New Cuyama, California and see the most glorious sight of my life, a bright and not so shinny Mobil station. The weight of weights lifts off my shoulders and I suddenly feel secure in the knowledge that I’ll make it back to the 101.

Unlike the Starbucks in Malibu, when I enter the Mobil the gal behind the counter could absolutely care less that I’m in a full set of racing leathers. All she cares about is continuing her conversation with the gal she’s been talking to on the phone about her weight loss program. How she’s trying to get down to 150 or 125.

By the time I hit Santa Maria and take the 101 South, the day is quickly feeling gray. Even on the Left Coast, Winter still means less light. At this point I have no real idea where I am in relation to Los Angeles. I know I’m North, but have no clue how far up. I could have packed a map, but that would have ruined the surprise. So a couple of miles down the road when I notice a CalTrans sign that rather matter of factly states that Santa Barbara is sixty-seven miles away it finally dawns on me just how far away from my life I am.

It’s funny but these days I’m riding roughly 150 miles a ride through the local canyons. That’s a major increase in usual mileage compared to what I used to consider my ‘normal’ rides. Yet as I’ve grown accustomed to the increased time spent on the bike the feeling of relaxation has changed. It’s not nearly as recharging. Sometimes I almost think it’s like a drug. The effect is somehow limited by a natural resistance. A force in your body that says, ‘Ah ha! You can’t fool me, I’ve done this before’

However on a day like today that sensation of relaxation somehow seems inversely proportional. For every mile over 150 I feel twice as relaxed and refreshed as before. My wrists ache and my back is slightly tweaked, but all in all the extra miles feel better than they normally do. It’s a truly amazing thing.

So when I head down the 101 and notice the sign for Palmer Canyon and somehow vaguely remember that it connects to Foxen Canyon, I feel compelled to make a long ride even longer. It’s a departure from the norm and probably not the smarted deal in the world, but inside I feel overwhelmed with a desire to ride through the Santa Barbara Wine Country. Besides how often do you get the chance to do that? Or to put all your favorite roads together into one gigantically large and fantastically enjoyable loop?

Palmer Canyon and Foxen Canyon Road simply blow me away. At this point I’ve carved a couple hundred amazing corners today, but none like these. The SB Wine Country is a visual treat unlike the rest of the day. It’s uniquely colorful. The leaves filling the landscape with yellows, browns, reds and greens as I rocket past each different winery. Inside I want to stop and take a picture, but the ride is just to good, to enjoyable, too much fun to stop. I can’t help but feel thankful to be here, today, on this bike, riding this ride. It’s that good. The Duc singing it’s own song. From apex to apex it’s a first gear throttle control dance, which starts with one corner and then gradually grows until I’m rocking back and forth from turn to turn in an Italian paradise. A Ducati in Wine country, who would have thought the two would play nicely together?

Sitting here now, with a single malt scotch in my hand I feel emotionally and physically drained. It’s been an amazing day. A glorious day. A day among days, when all seems right in the world and it’s all about the ride. The journey and the unplanned nature of it all. I never set out to ride this much, but I did because the bike begged me to do it and I absolutely loved every minute of it.. Now the only question is when to do it again.