Memorial Rejuvenation

The sword, the sea and reincarnation are three fairly basic components of Celtic Mythology that Arthurian legend later weaved together into the notion of rebirth or rejuvenation. Anyone who’s ever seen a modern day retelling of King Arthur or The Knights of the Round Table has undoubtedly witnessed the rather common scene where someone does something rather noble in their last stand before their dead or dying body descends into the depths of an icy cold body of water. It’s one of the primary conventions of classic medieval story telling. For the folks who wrote these tales water held the power to not only wash away ones sins but also bring their soul back to life in its purist form. I have no idea whether these centuries old tales are true, but the idea that a journey to the edge of a body of water can actually cleanse your soul has always fascinated me. Perhaps because on a personal level I tend to believe that riding at its core is a completely rejuvenating experience and on a practical level because the vast majority of my travels happen in a relatively confined space that traverses the California coastline.

I found myself mulling this rather heady conceptual notion over while coming back down the Pacific Coast Highway this afternoon after six hours of introspective rocketship riding throughout the Los Padres National Forrest. Somehow I couldn’t shake the thought that while water might have worked well for the folks who wrote these tales, Route 33 works better.

When I got up at 5:20 this morning I had no idea that today would hold the key to bringing my sense of purpose and desire to live life to the fullest back. Throughout this past week I had dabbled with the idea of heading up to Ojai and Route 33 at some point over this holiday weekend yet the fear of traffic, congestion and other riders’ moronic behavior kept holding me back.

The on Thursday I opened up the Los Angeles Times Calendar Section and found an article titled “Cycle of the Seasons” by Auto columnist Dan Neil a few pages in. It’s a rather odd sensation when you read someone else’s words in such a public publication and realize that this person is telling the masses about what you wish was only a secret held by a few. Reading Dan’s glowing review of a road I certainly know well was yet one more reminder that living requires action. To enjoy the ride you’ve got to experience it.

Dan summed ‘33’ up with this short graph;

This is the sort of Ultimate California road you see in Honda and Yamaha ads: stunning red-rock cornices and forested canyons, valleys of patchwork-green geometries, trees grown together like vaulted ceilings, and through it all an undulating seam of asphalt (and recently paved too) — high-speed straights, hold-your-breath hairpins, perfect sweepers and roller-coaster elevation changes.

Re-reading Dan’s words last night I couldn’t help but think that perhaps this was the weekend to make my semi-annual pilgrimage. You see Route 33 isn’t just a road or simply an adventure; it’s much more than that. It’s a calling. Seldom have I ever experienced anything that quite resembled the urge to conquer and tame such a beast.

Yet even though I knew that I wanted to ride it, logic kept creeping in. I couldn’t decide whether following Dan’s advice and riding 33 today was a fantastic idea or a downright horrible one. I have no doubt that his write up was giving the same idea to a thousand other motorists at the same time. While having my first sip of coffee I decided to just get on the bike and see how it was going. Decide from there.

Forty minutes later I found myself pulling into The Rockstore with the idea still percolating in that Southern slow cooking sort of way. It was only when I got off the bike and popped the kickstand that I realized that this was already an oddly different day.

I was the eighth bike to show up. Since they opened. I don’t know that I’ve ever been out riding so early. Or have arrived at the Rockstore when it was this empty.

The sun hadn’t even broken yet when I walked inside and ordered. As the hot oily coffee slipped down the back of my throat and the four older BMW riders’ idle conversation turned to hybrid engine technology, it seemed way to early to go back home and far to empty to let go of the dream.

As it turns out heading up to Ojai and Route 33 over the Memorial Day Weekend is becoming something of a habit for me. According to the blog last year I made the same trek using a slightly different route. Both trips however served the same purpose. To let go and enjoy. To exist somewhere special. To take in the beauty that too many other folks seem to ignore. But most importantly to refresh and to rejuvenate that small part of me that sits deep inside.

Leaving The Rockstore, I headed North on Mulholland for a bit before swing East on Kanan-Dune. Eventually I hit the 101 and took it North towards Thousand Oaks. I got off on 23 and headed east again. In short order I found my way to the CA-118/23 exit and got off. At this point the relatively simply set of numerical directions becomes much less certain and merely an exercise in mental memory. I could bore you with all the names, but in all honesty it’s not a Mapquest kind of trip. Rather it’s about emersion. At some point the ride takes over and you become more passenger than rider.

Once you’re off the freeway you find yourself beginning to feel lost in an oasis of change. Rolling through Moorpark and later Fillmore it’s hard to tell if you’re in suburbia, farm country or some urban planners mixed up Lego set. This is an area in transition and it’s easy to tell. Chunks of landscape are missing and have been replaced by MegaMall shopping areas. Other sections are classic California single story ranch styled homes. Most of the ride is amazingly beautiful in an oddly classic Californian way – yet it’s very different than the idyllic and easily definable stunning nature of the coast. This is more Central California than Coastal.

Once you hit Fillmore, it’s a quick left at the first stoplight you’ve seen in ages and moments later you find yourself shuttling down Route 126. It’s one of those roads that doesn’t know what it wants to be; is it a freeway or a scenic escape? Eventually you hit Santa Paula and get off at CA 150.

Riding through Santa Paula is something of a history lesson for early California. Like most of the coast the Chumash Native American Indian tribe founded the area approximately 10,000 years ago. They called their city Mupu. The Chumash had little reason to fret when the first Spanish explorers arrived in 1542 and became the first European settlers on the left coast. It took roughly 227 years for Gaspar de Portala, who was the former Spanish governor of Baja California, to explore the area. Yet in 1769, a mere twenty-six years after Portala’s arrival, Mupu got renamed Santa Paula by Spanish and Mexican settlers. The area was incorporated multiple times until eventually it ended up with the name Rancho Santa Paula y Saticoy.

A little over a hundred years later in 1862 the ranch fell into the hands of George Briggs, who promptly got the inspiration to spilt the area up and sell parcels to farmers. The cause and effect of this early attempt at subdivision eventually required Nathan Blanchard and E.L. Bradley to lay out the first urban plan for the area in 1873. One would think that by now this early attempt at planned development would hold little distinction yet it does for one very small and colorful reason. Blanchard planted oranges on the west side of town.

Today Santa Paula has been dubbed the “Citrus Capital of the World.” – though I suspect folks in Florida would find that hard to imagine – yet in 1887 when The Southern Pacific Railroad first arrived Blanchard capitalized on his land by shipping oranges through the west and thus created an identity for the area. Who would have thought a fruit would be so important?

Yet the story doesn’t end there – that same year two men by the names of Wallace Hardison and Lyman Stewart moved to town. Within a short matter of time the two began California’s earliest oil production in the canyons surrounding Santa Paula and together went on to form Unocal, who’s first offices were you guessed it in downtown Santa Paula.

Of course since those early exploits Santa Paula has fallen on hard times. Last year Santa Paula Mayor Mary Ann Krause resorted to a lobbying campaign to have the town declared fictional West Wing Presidential candidate Arnold Vinick’s hometown. Shockingly this did little to boost the self imagine of the area.

Riding up through CA-150 it’s hard to ignore the socioeconomic gap that’s dividing the area. Small enclaves of modern homes dot the landscape while most of the town seems ten years late in applying a new coat of paint. Today this chasm was particularly noticeable due to hundreds of Vote Yes and Vote No ballot measure signs that had been hammered into every other lawn in town. Apparently the area is voting on something called Measure E6, which as it turns out is a community vote to approve building 2,155 new homes in an area called Fagan Canyon.

From outside appearances it seems that many of the residents don’t want the measure to pass because they are concerned about additional traffic congestion. I tend to stay out of the fray when it comes to political issues and since I don’t live there I suppose I ought to keep my mouth shut, but as a fan of the area anything that builds new homes, new parks, new schools and offers more jobs seems like a worthwhile gamble in my opinion.

Once you reach the far end of town, the houses and ballet measure signs vanish just as the road begins to envelope your focus. Suddenly the straight and narrow turns curvy. Part of the road is still damaged from last years rainy season, yet in-between the damage there are some simply spectacular moments. While waiting for the last stoplight to turn green I realized that during previous trips I’ve never taken the time to stop when I was between Santa Paula and Ojai to snap some pictures. So today I held back the urge to open throttle up and pulled off to take a couple of quick picts of the valley floor area between the two cities. Oddly while most of the region is agriculturally based most of this in-between valley is actually comprised of horse and cattle farms. They are some of the most picturesque landscapes I’ve seen in quite some time. After yet another break and a quick smoke, I hopped back on the bike and finally entered the town of Ojai, California.

Of all the towns in the greater Santa Barbara County area, Ojai is my absolute favorite. It’s quiet, it’s charming, it’s artsy and it’s easy to navigate. One main road – that’s it. It’s also the home to what seems like a million bed and breakfast establishments. Clearly I’m not the only one who likes it here. While the area sends off a rather wonderfully rustic Spanish architecture vibe, don’t let the looks fool you. This is pricey land.

Yet it hasn’t always been that way. Ironically while Santa Paula’s early reputation was growing, Ojai’s wasn’t. The land was first settled in 1837 when the Spanish granted deeds to the area to Fernando Tico. He promptly sold the land in 1853 to oil prospectors who apparently didn’t have much success. Evidently the search for oil slowed down and by 1864 the main area of the city was settled. In 1874 settlers decided to officially call their city, Nordhoff. The name stuck until post World War I when folks felt Nordhoff sounded to German. So they went back to the origins of the area and used a Chumash word to rename it. Thus began the rise of Ojai, California.

Last year over the Memorial Day Weekend, Ojai was a mess. Choppers and Harley’s were coming out of the woodwork and traffic was complete disaster. I’m sure it was equally as congested today, but since I was up early I ended up rolling through town at ten in the morning and thankfully missed the masses. By the time I stopped at the local 76 station to fill up one last time before hitting 33, the sun finally had broken through the mixed assortment of clouds and the temperature had finally risen into that acceptably warm, yet still relatively cool riding range where your hands feel a bit nippy but your body resonates with warmth. It was ideal. And that was before I got to the real adventure.

There are few roads that I have ever ridden that hold the kind of hallowed power that lies among the 56 miles of curves that make up Route 33. Yet the road is defined by more than just merely the sum of its corners. To ride it is to experience something beyond merely entrances and apexes and gargantuan vistas. This is a road of lust. A road to witness everything that you can’t do legally. It’s a unique blend of the metaphysical and the innate human desire to push yourself and your abilities to the maximum. With few legitimate hiding spots and absolute no concrete turnoffs, this road is easy to exploit to its’ fullest. From corner to corner it’s just full out fists of throttle at a time. And unlike the tight canyon roads I normally negotiate with, most of these bends sweep rather than switchback and forth. Yet that’s part of the charm and the excitement. This journey is all about letting yourself go and letting the engine out. This road has the unique ability to both transform your place in life and transcend a single moment in time. Every second forces you to think and react. Scary fast doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling that this road elicits. Riding it well is something that goes beyond a mere trackday or a thousand mile road trip. To conquer this winding, twisting, rollercoaster of an adventure isn’t about connecting dots on a map, but rather about building sequences of smooth flowing transitions from full lean to maximum power and back again.

Seldom if ever have I come back from a trip up through Ojai and Route 33 feeling anything less than spectacular. Today is no exception. If you love to ride this road is unquestionably a Mecca. Because the real bounty here doesn’t lie in the path of the asphalt but rather the journey it takes you on.