Cornering Speed : The Past Year of My Life

The 1098S idly rumbles beneath me while a cool wind slides through the air. Together the bike and I sit and wait. The motionless tires straddling the edges of two never quite ending rain puddles. All around us the winter leaves swirl. Finally the garage door begins to slowly open. Its old burnt orange colored panels chattering with each inch of movement. It’s a unique sound. A sound that’s full of history. The gearhead equivalent of growth rings in a tree. Each creak and clack allowing its listener to hear the sound of time in motion. Eventually the door stops rising and I put the bike in gear. The ‘10 grunts up the hilly driveway with ease. Pops straight into its well worn tire chock and as I kill the engine I wonder, does the bike even know its year has now ended?

As 2007 comes to a close I once again find myself looking backwards. The past twelve months have certainly offered a roller coaster of life events which have ranged from total brilliance to utter despair. This in and of itself is not unique - it’s part of the core human condition - and it has been my experience that seemingly every year offers wildly emotionally oscillating moments. Yet what feels particularly divergent and different about this past year is that I continue to find it hard to properly quantify or categorize the moments contained within the past twelve months. They are new parts for a mental warehouse which has no inventory control. Events forged in context and yet with each growing day persist in confusing my emotional filing system.

The past year has been built mostly by complex moments. Events which on some level are greatly intertwined with their preceding and proceeding moments and yet when taken individually they feel surprisingly disconnected from everything else. This both seems like a strange contradiction and yet it also feels like it makes perfect sense too. Perhaps it’s just the usual demons of self-reflection once again infiltrating my mind.

History would suggest that mankind has always pondered its place in the universe, if not simply just one’s individual life. The very etymology of the word human for instance is derived from the Latin text humanus and means “of the earth” which of course stands in stark opposition to the idea of “celestial beings”, whomever or whatever they might be. The great pre-Socratic Greek philosopher Protagoras claimed that, “Man is the measure of all things; of what is, that it is; of what is not, that it is not”. Even the famed Immanuel Kant got in on the action, writing that, “Man is distinguished above all animals by his self-consciousness, by which he is a ‘rational animal’.”

Theoretically in big picture terms the importance of this self-reflection is to sort out one’s standing in the universe - to give meaning to the unknown in a logical or rational manor - but thoughts like that stir up bigger issues for a different blog. In practical terms the concept of reflection is an important part of maximizing the utility of having experiences in the first place. We look back on what we’ve done in order to decide whether or not to do it again. This process helps us determine whether or not we enjoyed an experience or were successful in completing a goal. Yet it’s also a rather dubious device because when it comes to emotional experiences reflection has the power to make you feel emotions - both the good ones and the bad ones - and sometimes these emotions transpire to cast a shadow of negativity or doubt over your life.

Over the past several weeks as the yearly self-reflection bout has taken hold, I keep finding myself going to bed with thoughts of what I know, what I wish I knew and what I want to know and yet only find myself waking up hungover from the possibilities of the future. When I was a child all of this was incredibly easier, each new year brought a specific milestone to achieve - the advancement to another grade or year in school. Even early jobs in my career offered a similar positional quest with definable points for reference. However things change with age and the trick of this past year was the gradual realization that this is now my life. I’m no longer young and I’m not old but rather stand somewhere in the middle. And it’s a big ‘middle’.

In many ways 2007 started as it ended - with lots of work, thoughts of the 1098S running through my mind and one heck of a nasty head cold. Though the bike wouldn’t arrive in States for a few more months, my January was consumed by Counting Down The Days and the thoughts of promise that only a new Ducati can offer.

Suddenly what had been a grim gray day seems awfully promising. It’s rather amazing to me how when you’re sick the world seems a whole heck of a lot less fun, much less friendly and all together tiring, but as the reality starts to set in that the arrival of the 1098 is just around the corner, no matter how sick I feel, I can’t help but smile inside… It’s going to be a very exciting year to say the least…

February was spent recovering from yet another sinus surgery - my 4th overall - which of course brought quite a bit of Doctor ordered time away from motorcycles. I suppose that everyone has their health related issues with in life, mine apparently is and perhaps always will be poor sinus cavities. Thankfully the Viccodine made most of the month a blur and by the time I was ready for action, Jake from Pro Italia was calling to say that the 1098S was almost here - sort of. The only question left was what kind of bike it would turn out to be…

I constantly keep finding myself awash in the memories of previous Ducati bikes and the dreams that come from purchasing a new model. What kind of temperament will the new bike have? Will she feel solid from the start like the ‘05 999 did or will she have to work herself in to shape like the ‘04 999? Will she feel as nimble as the ‘03 749 or will she turn in slower and stouter like the 9’s? How will she behave when she comes home and finds another Ducati in the garage? Will she like it? Will she hate it? Will she act up? This the tip of the iceberg in what has been a bizarre round of mental curiosity, but then long ago I came to believe that each and every individual Ducati bike has its own soul and its own unique character. They eat, they breath, they speak and they all do as they please with just a little help from us. So the question ultimately becomes what kind of bike will my 1098S be and I can’t wait to find out.

March 10th brought the first taste of an answer to that very question, but not before a reflective morning bout with a Building Euphoria Took Hold.

By now one would think I would understand the emotional outpouring that comes from a new bike. The hopes. The fears. The drain on the checking account. The crazy motolust inspired insanity of it all. After all this will be my fourth Ducati in less then three years and obviously I’ve done this dance before. Yet as the clock continues to move very slowly through the night I find myself feeling like a kid before Christmas once again. And again. And again. ( I mean who knew that March was the holiday season, right???)

Finally, after months of not so patiently waiting, Destiny Arrived. The old man, Motor Milt, and I headed up to PI and picked up the newest Diva before taking her out on her maiden voyage. It was instantly apparent that the 10 would be unlike any other Ducati I’ve ever owned. And that turned out to be a great thing…

Randomly while coming around corners you can’t help but feel like you’re playing yourself in an XBox game. The microsecond you merely begin to have the first inclination to even think about a movement or motion, it just happens. To say that this bike is responsive doesn’t even begin to describe how much movement it offers. While other bikes are fluid or fast, the 1098S acts on an entirely different level. It removes all hesitation or doubt, completely bypassing your central nervous system and taking its direction straight from the electrical impulses emanating in your mind. There is no other worldly explanation for how it can react so quickly and with so little fuss.

I usually hesitate to evoke religion when I write stuff for the blog since its such a divisive topic, but after four hours of riding through the Santa Monica Mountains just above Malibu, I find myself feeling fairly certain that this bike wasn’t designed in Ducati Corsa, but rather fell from the heavens. The fact that it is street legal is absolutely amazing and it’s just the first day, how crazy is that?

The very next day I tossed my leg over the 1098 once again and found myself blown away by the power, the grace and the Flickability of the bike. As major motorcycle purchases go, this was shaping up to be a stellar choice…

To say that a 1098 holds the power to take your breath away isn’t an accurate statement at all. It does more then that. Much more. It ceases all unnecessary human functions there by bringing your level of humanity down to the barest of primal responses. Your survival depending completely on what has been programmed into your DNA after millions of year of evolution. All other responses can’t help but stand in awe of what this bike can do. What it was meant to do.

For the third day in a row I fired up the 1098S for a ride - only this time the bike and I were running hot laps on the track at Buttonwillow. Since the engine wasn’t yet fully broken in I kept it rather mellow and instead focused on enjoyed one of my favorite tracks. Unfortunately I never got the chance to post anything the bike’s first trackday because just a few days later the 10 was back in the garage and I was jetting off to see the world as The Next Great Adventure Began for work.

In mere hours I board yet another plane destined for another continent in order to embark on yet another amazing journey. Less then six months ago I found myself in a very similar place as I prepared to leave for a magical automotive odyssey. At the time I thought, and wrote, that it was the greatest adventure of my lifetime. And it was – until now…

Tonight I stand on the doorstep of something greater, something bolder, and something much more meaningful to me personally. A nearly supernatural journey around the world all in the name of the sportbike.

Over the course of the next month this grand adventure will crisscross oceans and landmasses, travel through built up cities and nearly abandoned countrysides, all in order to delve into the history, the factories and the current bikes of some of the greatest motorcycle marques in the world for Discovery Turbo.

I had hoped to blog about the trip while on the road - just as I had done during the ‘06 automotive adventure - but hitting more brands in less time on more continents ended up preventing that from happening… Really the Sake, Single Malts and Italian Wine had nothing to do with it

While we were flying around the world in search of the soul of the sportbike, the first parts of the ‘06 automotive adventure premiered on Discovery Turbo’s website under the projects offical title, “Top Marques”.

Finally in the middle of May, after nearly two months of living out of a suit case, I found myself back in LA. It would take roughly another two weeks to get back on the 1098S, but hitting Palomar Mountain was like finding a warm plate of Asphalt Comfort Food waiting for you back home after a long day at the office. Just the right meal at the perfect time…

To say that this bike has been unlike any other motorcycle I’ve ever owned is an understatement — Never before in my life have I purchased a brand new motorcycle and then just let it sit waiting to be ridden. As any long time rider can tell you, there’s a pain deep in your soul when you know that your bike has been neglected. It’s an ill feeling that is markably worse when you know that it’s a new motorcycle awaiting your return. A bike whom you barely know. And a motorcycle that you’ve spent months of your life waiting to arrive…

Yet sometimes life forces you to wait just a little bit longer and while I’ve been out gallivanting across the globe riding other folks motorcycles on tracks and country roads in foreign countries, the 1098S patiently sat by. Waiting for an opportunity to play. And yesterday was that day. The first time in what felt like an eternity when I was able to put aside the day to day requirements of life and work, and instead just enjoy a few hours of solitary daylight on a two wheeled chariot that continues to impress.

A few weeks later it was the middle of June and thoughts of summer had started to emerge. Yet I also found myself keenly aware that the hectic travel schedule and time spent bouncing around the globe had taken their toll. In a Classic California Casual style, my personal salvation came from just standing on the side of the road and letting life simply ‘go by’…

And as I tossed the 1098S up on its sidestand, it occurred to me that I was just about to do something that I haven’t been able to do in quite sometime - just take a moment to enjoy ‘being somewhere’ instead of ‘doing something’. I’m sure that this seems like a small, nearly negligible difference and frankly I’m not even sure if it makes a great deal of sense, but the reality is that there has been so much motion in my life lately that the idea of standing on the side of the road and just existing seemed nearly incomprehensible.

So I pulled over and just stood there… and waited… and watched. Had a few smokes, took some pictures, and just listened to the nothingness that sits in the middle of The Cleveland National Forrest. Every so often the sound of a bike or a car or a few birds announced their eventual arrival, but for the better part of fifteen to twenty minutes the vacuum of movement played a wind swept song of solitude. And it was great. Because there I was taking in the classic California scenery, watching life go by and marveling at the beauty and performance of the 1098S.

Summer was in full swing by the end of June - which in the inland parts of the LA Basin means it’s hot - very, very hot. So fracking hot in fact that for the first time in my life I found myself not waiting to go outside because of the heat. When I did actually brave the Temecula Valley easy bake oven it felt like I was Riding in Molten Lava. However in retrospect after re-reading what I wrote about that particular day, it sure seems like there was far more at work then just the heat…

There was just to much of everything going on all at once to feel calm. To much interference, to many other folks, and way too much heat. Nearly triple digit temps that even at eighty miles per hour felt like bathing in molten lava.

Sitting inside at Mother’s (Kitchen), I flashed back to heading up to the top of Palomar for the very first time. It was just about a year ago when I first moved down to this part of SoCal. Since then it’s been a rollercoaster of a life, filled with lots of travel and little free time spent at home. Unlike previous years when I had the time to hit the canyons nearly every weekend, this year I’ve ridden far more away from home then near it. Subsequently I find myself still feeling rather uneasy with the roads down here, still finding my way around, trying to discover where the great asphalt lies. It’s both a blessing and curse. Fun because there’s always the opportunity for discovery and adventure. Annoying, because on a day like yesterday, when you simply want to ‘ride’ and wish to escape, I still really don’t know where to go. No matter how many message boards I surf or maps I examine, finding the kind of curves that speak to your soul isn’t as simple as going down to the nearest big box store and picking up a package of curvy corners.

A few days later things turned around in a big, big way when I tossed the bike in the bed of the pick-up and bounced up to LA. Finally it was time for the newest Diva’s 600 mile service and (then) A Costel Revival. Two sections stand out and clearly seem to identify where I was mentally at after re-reading the post…

…having a 600 mile service performed on a new Ducati is something that should be cherished. Instantly the bike becomes more then it ever has been before. It shifts - dramatically - from merely being a motorcycle and transforms into a its own bike. Its own soul. Suddenly what you’re riding becomes a true sportbike. A sophisticated, emotionally impacting soul stirring machine who’s true character you only briefly have thus far been able to see or touch.

And perhaps more to the point for an end of the year wrap up…

It’s remarkable to me how just seeing the ocean can lift your spirits and alter your perceptions on life. Everything in life seems healthier and grander. Bluer and brighter. The details you normally misplace or pass over, suddenly seem truer and more important. It’s as if the very way in which you look at the world shifts focus, from the moments you must take care to the things that you must remember. And it happens quickly. Snap your fingers fast. With lightning like affect, the spirits lift and the eyes widen and in mere seconds you feel the clouds lift and the pressures whisk away.

The next day Motor Milt and I took the ‘05 999 and a loaner Multistrada out for some Morning Glory in Malibu. Once again I found myself reflecting on how my soul seems to increasingly be connected to the ’sport’ of riding.

It’s clear to me that I’m absolutely happiest when I’m riding regularly — and riding maniacal twisting roads at a hyper pace. When the aches and moans from my body aren’t due to aging, but rather from hunching over a full tilt sportbike over miles and miles of asphalt madness. When the thoughts that run through my head aren’t based in work or life but rather living and breathing. Being ‘in the moment’ and yet ‘from the moment’. It is the fractions of seconds of speed which flourish in lightly to nearly non-inhabited corners of the planet which offer the kinds of constant corners, brilliant vistas and sense of escape that I truly crave. They are the bits of time that allow me to personally connect the dots.

By the end of June it was clear that I was finally finding a riding rhythm once again when the old man and I indulged in the glory of the west coast while Riding Through Gods Country on California Route 33.

As your eyes dart back and forth, you glance from canyon wall to scenic vista to curving corner all while ever increasing the twist of your wrist. You hear the engine revving louder and louder, feel the demon that’s trapped inside the bike rumble, sense the the thrill, and then bare witness to speed, as it becomes a nearly unholy object all its own. And that’s when you think to yourself that its hard to imagine that just a moment ago you were just lying in bed. Because this kind of living is so far removed from that kind of living. And even though you’re just at the beginning of todays experience, it already reminds you of exactly why you love this kind of feeling. This kind of passion. The personal action-adventure flick kind of ride that’s both completely implausible and yet tosses every bit of adrenaline into the furnace of life.

July started with a bang when I turned thirty. Unlike some women I know, this will be the first and last time this happens. Yet the event did however stir up a fair amount of mid-year (and perhaps third-life) reflection. It’s the kind of introspective activity that seemingly has no choice but to infiltrate the written word, so when I penned the entry titled, “Taking My Own Advice - The ST3 Adventure Begins“, it ended up being both a self-help post and a celebration of a brand new Ducati ST3. Two sections of the post seem to best articulate exactly what I was thinking at the time…

At the moment I find myself taking quite a bit of personal inventory. This particular birthday - this grand marker - seems to have hit harder then most. Certainly harder then the last several ticks on the clock. While others in my age bracket appear to have it all figured out, I find myself continually coming back to one very basic question - is this all there is in life? Is this as good as it gets?

I say that fully aware that I dig my life. I enjoy what I do. I love how it’s played out. But I can’t help but feel like there has to be more that’s out there - more challenge, more survival, more experience, just more emotionally engaging adventures to be had.

This begs one to ask how navigate the waters and still allow yourself to dance among the stars in the sky? How do you advance in a way which suits your favor and also makes you happy? How do you move forward in a way that interests you? These are questions which continue to make me wonder - they are things that stir the pot and repeatedly make me contemplate what it is that I want out of life from this point forward.

Clearly some of these questions I have yet to answer. During frozen moments in time it seems as if I’m always drifting back to them and perhaps that’s just the way it works when you find yourself mulling your extended life over. On the other hand it seems equally as plausible to me right now that some of these questions might never have answers. The point of the ST3 however wasn’t to delve into the theoretical or the philosophical but rather the practical - how to head up the coast on a Sport-Tourer…

I simply miss taking long winding journeys up and down the coast of California on a bike. While I love the 1098S and think it’s a phenomenal sportbike, clearly it was not designed to travel hundreds of miles per day. Taking that bike up the coast would be an extremely painful trip that I have no desire to ever make. And while I truly love and enjoy the trackday experience, they tend to come and go in one very long day. They are events that are oftentimes over before you know it.Multi-day road trips on the other hand have a truly unique staying power. They last well after you’ve returned because they resonate in a very different way. Taking a long journey on a bike allows you to feel a sense of removal that is exponentially greater then blurring through canyon curves on a demonic sportbike. They are personal events which force you to put down the cell phone, ignore the voicemail and unplug the laptop for days at a time. It’s an experience that I used to greatly enjoy on previous sport-tourers and subsequently find myself missing. Perhaps that’s because by their very nature lengthy trips take away the creature comforts you’ve grown accustomed to and instead wear you down in a very basic and primeval manor. They beat you up mentally and they beat you up physically until what remains is the desire to ride for the sake of the ride. Nothing else matters. Not lap times or lean angle. Not gigantic horsepower numbers or the latest and greatest ‘fill-in the blank’. Inside it’s the drifting moment that you live for, that time when you can enjoy the countryside, the ocean, the coast, the hills and the mountains in a completely undisturbed manor — because let’s face it you’re a million miles away from the nearest cell tower and in all honesty have nothing else to do but slow things down and enjoy the ride that lies ahead.

Not so shockingly Breaking in The ST3 began the very next day and the post that followed offered a bit more explanation as to why I ended up choosing the Ducati over other brands or models.

The ST3 on the other hand does everything that I expected it to do after doing the ST3S Review awhile back. It’s not as emotionally gratifying on the edges as the 1098S or the 999, but in my opinion offers the rider the best approximation of that experience in a more ergonomically comfortable package and it does it with typical Ducati charm and grit. The phrase that keeps coming to mind is ‘fantastic package’. As I surveyed the landscape for potential second bikes, the ST3S started as the benchmark and repeatedly was the motorcycle that I kept coming back to and once the left over ‘06 was discovered it seemed like fate. The right bike, the right color and the right price. Who can argue with that?

A day of breaking in the ST3 with the old man was great, but tossing crap in the saddle bags and hitting the open road was the real impetus for the bike. So roughly 48 hours after picking the bike up, I headed North and found myself Mesmerized by Majesty on the way from LA to Morro Bay.

They lead right to the doorstep of one of California’s great rides, CA-58.

It is a magical road. One that starts off cutting through the truly rural farm country - rural as in 3 cows on a twenty acre farm rural - before curving up a series of minor mountains, which of course lead to bigger mountains and greater curves. They are some of the best curves I’ve ever hunted. But they go by fast - faster then you’d like, but just when you’re ready to give up on the road, you realize that it continues in a big, but different way. Instead of blazing a trail around a mountain, the road blasts through a quizzical valley floor where speeds easily reach the triple digits. Just when you’ve had enough of the flat lands, rolling hills pop up out of nowhere and provide an awesome roller coaster effect. Suddenly the road surface articulates up and down, over and over, until you’re damn near motion sick. And bang, just like that you’re back carving corners in a coastal wonderland, before dropping down into San Luis Obispo. If there’s one road that encapsulates the California road surface aesthetic, it’s CA-58. An asphalt paradise place that’s worth airline fare to see and too ride. It is beyond a ‘wow’ road.

Just riding CA-58 is a phenomenal personal experience, but having the chance to do it on the ST3 was even better. The bike is everything that I had hoped it would be; fast, lightning quick to steer, nimble, light, comfortable, and secure. Thus far the baby diva and I have gotten on famously. Perhaps it’s because of the time I’ve spent on Ducati’s literbikes, but everything on the ST3 feels just as refined but much less wicked. On 300 mile days that’s an absolutely perfect compromise and it leaves me thirsty for more.

The next day I continued the trek North and discovered, “The Art of Exploration“. Two sections of the lengthy post catch my eye. The first touching on the internal struggle that true sport-touring machines must face…

52 magnificently glorious miles of the splendid sits before me. A stretch of nearly uninhabited coastline that connects San Simeon to Big Sur with the kind of artistry that has long been forgotten by the folks who now build roads. It is an awe-inspiring kind of wonderland, a swooping and sweeping asphalt playground for anything that is automotive. Every corner and crest coming from out of nowhere and yet revealing such beauty that to go fast here is something far greater then a sin. It’s a travesty. The kind that you take to your grave because it means you sped to through life like a flash in the pan popstar.

However the bright red ST3 beneath me has other ideas for the day. It doesn’t care about oceans or seagulls or baby redwoods. Rather it’s here to do battle with a one of a kind roadway. Twisting the throttle back a bit, I try to feed it’s desire and calm it down, but instead I only make it worse. The bike fights to rev a little bit higher and run a little bit faster. It wants to claim its prey. Soon the bike and the scenery are engaged in a mortal battle for both the style and substance of what the day will hold. The next ten hours hang in the balance. Either magical images or marvelous speeds will result. It’s the kind of internal struggle that folks in cars rarely entertain and dare I say, probably can’t relate to. Yet for those who like to ride, it’s a common occurrence and a situation where compromise doesn’t come easily. How do you juggle enjoying the ride and the scenery at the same time? For the remainder of Route-1, I find myself teetering on the brink. Every so often letting one side of the equation win but never quite feeling totally satisfied one way or the other.

And then, of course there was the hidden gem…

Yet as good as G13 was - and it’s far to short of a road let me tell you - the glory of the day belonged to California State Road 25. Running from Priest Valley at State Route 198 in the south to U.S. Route 101 in Gilroy to the north, CA-25 is the kind of retarded fun oasis that returns you to adolescence and makes getting yourself lost worthwhile. It’s a near mythic kind of get away road, which exists so far outside of the realm of normal that just seeing another moving car seems like a noteworthy ordeal. It’s also a flat out racetrack - only in it’s a public road, in real life, that’s waiting to be conquered. Seriously it’s as if someone tossed Sears Point, Laguna Seca and the straight aways at Daytona into a blender and then poured them out on completely deserted tumbleweed covered countryside just for personal amusement. To ride this road is to open yourself up to a kind of greatness that we pave over today. The kind we ignore. Whether you take this road hard or slow, it’s the sort of place that forces you to focus on what lies ahead yet also offers the freedom to allow your mind to roam with the scenery. In some respects isn’t that the joy of adventuring into the unknown? When you’re on a racetrack, eventually you know exactly where the road goes and the only question is how technically proficient you can become at attacking it - but riding off the beaten path on the other hand offers the ability to see and process what lies ahead, to focus on attacking the completely unknown road while at the same time giving you the freedom to allow your imagination run away, to visit places that you never allow yourself to go. There’s something magical about that kind of sensation, it’s the art of exploring and it has helped turn what it normally a 350 mile trip into a 650 mile, two day odyssey.

After a few days spent hanging out in San Francisco and the greater Bay Area, it was time to head back to LA and take The Trip Home, which of course wasn’t quite as satisfying as the outbound journey…

As the day rambles on and one great corner after another fades away, I find myself becoming keenly aware of just how fleeting vacation time feels when you’re on the backend of a trip. Even though I’m still 200 miles away from home, I’m no longer fixated on the ride but rather already starting to focus on what waits for me when I walk in the door. My mind continually goes over what needs to get done when I arrive, calls I have to make, things I have to pick up, all those minor tasks that take up time and don’t seem like very much fun. It’s one of the sick tricks of travel - somehow vacation time never last as long as it’s outlined on your calendar. And I’m not sure why — Why does it seem to so hard to enjoy the last bit of riding to same degree as an outbound journey? I’m still on the bike, still traveling in a great part of the world and enjoying a great road, yet my mind has already packed it in and moved on to tomorrow.

A touch over a week after I returned to LA, I was back at Pro Italia, Picking Up The ST3 after its 600 mile service - which of course was only slightly over due after a 1,200 mile journey up the coast

Roughly ten days later, one of my favorite projects of the year became available to the public when Ducati: A Story of Passion was released on DVD.

The realities of the real world (read: work, life, my crazy barking dog) subsequently injected themselves into my little riding universe and it was more then a month later before I was finally able to find the time to get back on the bike again. Unfortunately Mother-Nature didn’t really care…

In some ways I imagine that this partially explains why twenty minutes later while flying down the freeway towards Palomar Mountain, I totally ignored the first several splattered patterns of rain that pelted me. It can’t be raining, in Southern California… In August???, I thought to myself. But it was. Now it wasn’t crazy wet like an Eastern Seaboard summer shower, but it was enough to dampen the roads and muck up the face mask. Now I’ll admit that I’m not exactly keen to wet riding. It doesn’t scare me but it’s not my favorite either. I know some of you out there dig it and others are forced to do it to get to work or the like, but riding in the rain has simply never been high in my book. Perhaps that’s a completely California attitude, I don’t know.

With the weather acting out like a bratty popstar, I stubbornly decided that the only sensible solution was to get back on the bike and ride again on the following day. That turned out to be one of the better decisions of the year because I was able to find some Morning Bliss on a Monday…

It was one of those marvelous days where it felt like the road had been built just for the sole purpose of riding it. As if it was carved into the side of a cliff solely for this one particular moment in time. This exact day. This singular event where everything in life coalesces into one simple and easy to articulate equation that riles the soul. It was the kind of scene that gives me goose bumps thinking about it now and that’s no small thing - at least not in my book - for as many of you know, it has been quite an adventure adjusting to living in this neck of the woods over the past year. It’s been far more challenging then I ever thought it would be and at times I’ve been quite vocal about the ups and the downs associated with changing your riding scene. Yet today all of those emotions seemed to dry up and dissipate. They vanished faster then the puddles left over from yesterdays thunderstorm. Now certainly part of that was the bike - for the first time in countless days it felt like the 1098S and I were connected at the hip. The bike acting as if it were directly wired into my subconscious, plucking movements and reactions out of my mind nanoseconds after my synapses seemingly fired. The results of which was a nearly invincible sensation that lasted forever.

Hours later when I finally returned home, with a brimming smile plastered on my face, I couldn’t help but feel like yesterday’s summer thunderstorm had somehow inexplicably enchanted the air and somehow restored the magic of riding to my soul.

The beginning of September found me charged up to the top of Palomar on the ST3 and realizing that up until now I was having some serious Commitment Issues when it came to the roads in the Southern part of SoCal. Apparently somewhere along the line the Mountain and I became friends…

It’s a remarkable change to be sure. For quite awhile I’ve mentally fought this road and all the others around here, and yet now something has dramatically shifted. I can feel it. I can sense it. I can almost taste it. It’s a palpable sensation that hangs in the air everywhere I go.

Bending the ST into the next series of corners, it’s clear to me that up until now I’ve simply been unwilling to let go of the past and some part of me felt unable to commit to the future. A future of riding here, on this mountain and in this neck of the woods. By the time I start heading down S7 on the east side it’s obvious that I’ve made a jump of some kind and this is more then merely a place to ride – it has to be for me - in order exist as a weekend by weekend destination. It’s something else, something more, something deeper, something different. I feel like I’ve begun to actually enter into a relationship with these roads. In their corners I find comfort and on their straights I see where it is that I want to go in life. They offer both the continuity that I need and the release that I crave on a day by day basis. I didn’t or couldn’t see it before, and perhaps I didn’t allow myself to recognize it, but somewhere in this asphalt lies another, albeit different, love affair.

The next day, I wrote “It’s A Different Kind of Kick“, after shooting out to the Palomar region once again. It was the first time all year that I was finally able to putting together back to back riding days somewhere besides The Santa Monica Mountains.

Over the past two days it seems as if the world has dramatically shifted for the better. Suddenly it no longer feels like I’m riding through Hades during the day – overnight everything got cooler and calmer. Never in my life have I been so excited to wear a sweatshirt again at night while grabbing a smoke. After what feels like an eternity of excess heat, it’s been great to get back to something a bit more ‘normal’. Of course this drastic change in the weather compelled me to chuck the regulations of society, ditch the work week and get on the bike today.

Two days later I jumped back on a bike once again, this time taking the 1098S out Halfway to Nowhere. It was an attempt to discover some new roads further East. However it wasn’t just asphalt that I found but also some peace of mind…

With sweat rolling down the back of the leathers, I slide my helmet on and turn the 10 over again, if for no other reason then to hear the devil echo through the valley walls. The stock cans filling the void as they reverberate with an eerie force of modernity that’s quickly coming this way. One day soon tract homes will probably sit here and just down the street a supermarket will stand, yet I can’t help thinking that no matter how far society continues to sprawl it will never truly conquer this kind of western attitude. The cowboy sleeping under the sagebrush aesthetic. A slice of hard boiled life that seems unfathomable in our everyday world. This is to empty, to nomadic, to lifeless when viewed from afar and yet far to brightly breathing when gazed upon up close – and for some reason that feels extremely reassuring to me. Perhaps, because I see some part of myself in the resounding emptiness that’s slowly swinging back and forth in the subtle breeze that’s coming straight out of nowhere.

Towards the middle of September the latest riding kick reached its pinnacle when the old man and I took a ride together for the first time in months and headed out to discover the glory of Montezuma Valley Road. The resulting blog entry, “Finding a Piece of Heaven“, is one of my favorites for ‘07.

With his helmet off, the old man looks out at the vast Anza-Borrego Desert and says with a grin, ‘This is just like Route 33’. All I can do to acknowledge him is smile back. Because the remnants of this drastic biological and geological shift is a mountain range on the eastern side of the valley floor that rises to an impeccable 2,400 feet before plummeting 2,000 feet with a rapid succession of heavenly curving asphalt corners that rank amongst the best I’ve ever tackled. The road plays longer then it’s mileage but ends all to quickly. Offering great pavement, tremendous views and incredible turns that make you shake your head and smile. Without a doubt this is one of the most spectacular routes I’ve ever had the pleasure of riding.

Hours later, while sitting in the garage and staring at the bikes, I take a soft sip of a glorious single malt and find myself wondering what took me so long. After more then a year in the southern part of SoCal this is the road that was worth the trip. It’s not a Route 33 clone – I’m not sure that anything is - rather it’s probably best described as Route 33’s younger sibling. Just as empty, just as stark, just as curvy, but not nearly as endless. It’s hard to comprehend why I waited this long to bask in such a supreme sportbike riding afterglow.

For the next three weeks I dived back into a dark vast hole called an editing suite and lost myself in work once again. In many ways this sort of drastic on and off riding schedule seemed to epitomize the past year. Repeatedly I was either riding in binges or off the bike for a month straight. If there’s one definite theme that I enter ‘08 with it’s a desire to bring my riding back into a more regular routine.

Finally by the second week of October I had enough and reemerged on the asphalt. However instead of taking a spin in a canyon or through a desert, I once again found myself heading up the Coast - only this time it wasn’t just for the journey but rather also for a friends wedding. Over the past several years it has become rather obvious to me that events like weddings (and funerals) tend to pour a double shot of introspection into the glass of life and that inevitably results in self-reflection spilling out on the screen. In this particular case the result was the post titled, “Chapters of Life: LA to Carmel” and it stands out as one of the best bits I wrote all year. Several graphs continue to catch my eye…

As the gal pal smiles through the phone as the excitement grows, I can’t help but find my mind wandering. Slowly find the meaty base of the glass rocking back and forth in my hand before I take another sip. Single malts it seems are one of the few parts of life which champion their individual independence as if it’s a good thing.

Eventually the conversation moves towards heavier material once the primary factual information has been conveyed. ‘This is just another chapter in our lives,’ she says as my mind begins hula-hooping. Few phrases toss me for loops, but when did ‘her’ life become ‘our’ life? And if life really is a book filled with chapters, it certainly would have been nice to have received an advanced copy.

Then on a more personal note…

Pulling off just past the summit, I look out over the western edge of the Central Valley as the turbulence under the helmet continued to swirl. What is it about weddings that cause me to internalize where I’m at in life? You’d think after so many of these things, I’d stop using them as temp gauges for my life, yet somehow it seems I can’t.

Each of these events seems to pull me out of the parts of life I truly enjoy the most and instead impose a rather different kind of life path. It’s as if all these weddings have made my life a translucent fairing through which I can see cracks and scratches in my own personal trellis frame.

And finally on the actual act of riding up the coast…

Sixty miles into the hundred and twenty mile trek from Morro Bay to Carmel, the traffic piles up as the road gets tighter and tighter. The turns bending over in level four yoga positions before I eventually find myself stranded behind three gargantuan RVs as they double-down and shift their way towards a snails pace. Who on earth buys a Tony Soprano sized RV and then looks at the most squiggly line on a map of the State of California and thinks driving it in a rolling castle is a good idea baffles me. Nor am I quite sure why cars on Highway 1 try their damndest to keep pole position on the straights yet pull over in blind corners and wave you on to pass them where no one can see you.

However the upshot of this dramatic slow down is a whiplash sense of sea salt. Suddenly riding along the coast in fact smells like the coast. Which is a far more salty form of sport-touring then one would think. While the pace of the day seems redundantly mindless, the residual taste of magic that’s hovering on my lips seems to forecast something bigger, something better, something more remarkable and perhaps more outstanding.

Several corners later the sentiment comes to fruition as the road opens up and the bike leans out into the oncoming lane.

Three weeks later the trip up the coast was still fresh in my mind when I climbed back on the 10 while in LA and took a short jaunt through the canyons with Motor Milt, where I once again rediscovered Nimbleness.

Supposedly the name ‘Pacific’ was coined by the famed Portuguese explorer Ferdinand Magellan in 1520, and the literal translation of the original text means “peaceful sea”. Screaming down the straight before hitting a near one-eighty degree turn, I can’t help but feel as if that definition only partially scratches the surface of the issue. Just three weeks ago I blasted up the coast and took the time to take in the beauty of a huge chunk of the Pacific - and yet right now as I watch a small slice of it from the corner of my eye, it feels like I’m looking at a completely different beast. The distant cousin of the hot blonde at the end of the bar, whose both vaguely familiar and yet completely captivating all on their own.

As the 180 bends and the bike attacks, its obvious that somehow I’ve managed to stumble myself into one of those terrific days of riding where it seems as if you can do anything you want, whenever you want. The kind of day when all seems right in the world because you and the bike are so closely aligned that it starts doing things before your done thinking about them. After spending almost a week on the ST3, the 1098 feels like an altogether different bike. Not different from the ST3 - that’s obvious - but rather different from then the last time I rode the 1098. Suddenly its elegant and brash and a whole new kind of nimble. Hitting the next corner, I’m once again reminded why it was worth trading up for this hotrod ride. Between the lack of weight, the svelte tank, the tight handling, and the ridiculously addictive powerband, I feel like I’ve spent all day smiling - and from the moment I swung my leg over it this morning, I’ve kept finding myself wondering, ‘where’d the motorcycle go?’

At that moment life seemed pretty good… Then on the very next day The Santa Ana’s attacked and LA caught on fire.

The origins of the phrase, ‘Santa Ana’ is a completely convoluted to say the least. Some folks claim that the name comes from the actual Santa Ana Mountains, while others believe that the name derives from the Santa Ana River. Yet in my mind the most plausible origin for these wicked winds comes from the folks who claim that the original form of the phrase is Santana winds, coming from the Spanish vientos de Sanatanas, which means “winds of Satan” (Sanatanas being a rarer form of Satanás).

Regardless of how the winds came to be known, the reality is that the great canyon roads of Southern California are suffering. From Mulhulland to Latigo to Decker, the coast is ablaze and so to are a vast number of other ‘fun roads’ in other parts of the greater SoCal Area. In basic terms, LA is a mess right now and sportbike riding for the foreseeable future seems doubtful. Here’s hoping the winds die down, folks whose homes are in trouble make it out alright and the roads survive… All in all a sad day, and soon to be week, for LA riders…

Thanks to the fires, the usual work grind, and one hell of a head cold, it turned out to be another month - and the end of November - before I was finally able to get back on a bike again. While the ride itself wasn’t outwardly spectacular, when Motor Milt and I switched bikes and I found myself twisting the throttle once again on the ‘05 999 something magical happened…

There was something romantic about climbing aboard a bike that has given me so much enjoyment over the years. Taken me on so many treks through various California canyon roads. Images of places I’ve been on these two wheels kept coming up to the surface and it felt like I had picked up the phone, called an old friend who I hadn’t spoken to in eons and continued a conversation exactly where we left off years ago. Granted the 9 isn’t decades older then the 10 technologically - as opposed to someone who say owns a 1098 and a Vintage Triumph from their youth for example - but I imagine the feelings that the 9 recalled were quite similar. So, there I stood at the top of Stunt Road, gazing off into the distance and imagining myself when I’m gray and old, dutifully explaining to my future son or daughter, that, yes, this was in fact the bike of my youth. This was the bike that took a hobby and transformed it into a passion. The motorcycle that first stirred my soul in a meaningful way. The machine that caught me in its cross hairs and never let go. And perhaps more importantly the only sportbike I’ve ever owned that seemed over-protective and parental. As if it would never let you do anything to purposely hurt yourself.

After locking myself up in the editing cave for another three and half week stint, the LA Winter riding season (which I would define as December through February) got off to a bad start when I got back on a bike and ended up with Frozen Fingers and Motorcycle Frostbite.

It certainly seems like its been awhile since I last got a ‘good ride’ in. Of course for that matter it also seems like its been awhile since I just got ‘a ride’ in too. Over the past three months a variety of real world events had superseded what I’d like to think of as the ‘usual’ weekend riding routine. But then right now I’m not even sure what ‘usual’ is either… If I’m honest about it, the truth is that its been many years since I’ve done so little riding in the back half of the year. For the first time in ages I actually didn’t get a Thanksgiving ride in, which in many ways seems both unfathomable and case in point. When I think about the lack of saddle time, I find myself getting more and more aggravated. At myself. At life. At the way I feel. Mentally its like I’m going nuts and every time I look at the bikes I find myself feeling like I’m letting them - the inanimate objects - down… Which is probably even more crazy…

Thankfully things turned around quickly and a week later I found myself Coming Back To Clarity while riding up in The Santa Monica Mountains.

Turning your attention to the more pressing matters in life, you fixate on the road that lies ahead. An asphalt highway leading you towards your best and brights dream in what feels like an eternity. In quick succession the bike shoots forward. Blasts down another quiet canyon road as you dart in and out of fallen piles of rocks while passionately listening to that harbinger of a roaring engine take control. Then the throttle blips once more, the clutch comes out, the bike roars back to life and immediately you feel an instant form of clarity take hold of you. As if you’re finally yourself after months of being someone else. Another quick and sudden burst goes by and then you twist your wrist once again as you realize that the engine’s rage is releasing months of pent up frustration and dispair. Minutes or maybe moments later, the very ground you’re covering seems three shades brighter.

The second to last ride of the year took place on a brilliantly lit and rather picturesque day up in Malibu, where it seemed entirely possible to see forever and I found it easy to soak in The Water of Life.

At this point I’ve now been off the bike for several hours and yet I continue to find myself chewing on the rich texture of the ride. Each corner becoming both its own memory and yet somehow connected to a far greater event. The kind of day, and memory, whose meaning far exceeds its speeds. In someways it’s a jigsaw puzzle of a journey which simply needs to take its time to be completed.

Sipping the single malt, a sense of ease rolls over me. It’s the kind of ease that increasingly seems hard to come by these days. A place where relaxation meets the moment and allows that magical sense of simply being to escape.

Finally my riding this year came to a close with a group of good friends and good food at the top of The Angels Crest Highway, which is A Different Kind of Canyon road…

To call The Angels Crest anything less then a divine sculpture of roadway would be a mistake. It’s a spectacular route that starts its adventure on the edge of the Los Angeles basin and then traverses the San Gaberiel Mountains on its way to the Antelope Valley. It wouldn’t be my first choice to spend mornings commuting over, as the vast majority of cars seem to find the route overly challenging, but treated as a roadway for pleasure on a motorcycle - particularly a sporty motorcycle - and you avail yourself an opportunity for pure unadulterated magic.

The concept of ‘magic’ is something that surfaces on the pages of this site regularly, but the ‘magic’ that exists on the Crest is something entirely unique. It’s the exception to the rule of the canyons. Unlike the tight twisting coastal variety, the collection of curving mountain roadways that line the San Gaberiel Mountains offers a totally different style of riding. Instead of dancing with gears as you do in the Santa Monica Mountains, up here among the forest of trees it’s a completely wide open frenzied experience which requires large fistfuls of throttle and showcases the brilliant possibility of repeated top-end speed. Corner after corner you watch the revs live at the top of the range as you’re offered the rare chance to listen to the sound of pure speed reverberate through the canyon walls. It’s a drastically different skill set then the one that’s required to proficiently ride near the coast but one whose intoxication is equally as strong. So enticing in fact that as you battle the harsh winter shadows, you find yourself thinking about next year and already mentally planning another trek during the summer when the sun is sitting high and the roads are crystal clear.

Reflecting at the riding posts from this past year I’m struck by both their visual diversity as well the core issues that continue to emerge. I find myself having to remember that it was just eighteen months ago that I jumped into the unknown and moved from LA to Riverside County. The effects of that transition are clearly still being felt. Yet I’m also aware that I’m finally beginning to feel at home down here. However eighteen months is still just eighteen months and that’s not a heck of a lot of time on the ground physically or even emotionally. In my case easily six of those months have been spent traveling around the world and the States for work. So I suspect it shouldn’t be all that surprising or even shocking that for most of this past year I continued to bemoan basic self-reflections such as, ‘where am I headed?’ or ‘is this all there is to life?’. Tonight the rational behind those observations seem fairly obvious yet during the year I managed to lose the critical distance needed fully understand where I was standing. In some respects I suspect we do this because let’s face it we all want our lives to sort themselves out immediately and unfold in a manageable but exciting fashion, however the reality is that life doesn’t work that way. It’s a journey that takes time to work itself out. You simply can’t feel both safe and thrilled at the very same time. By definition these are conflicting emotions that stand in opposition to each other.

Ultimately the more I reflect on the past years events - both in terms of work and more importantly riding - the more secure I feel about where life actually is right now. Certainly there will be unexpected bouts with the unknown. That’s just the way life works. Yet after re-reading a years worth of previous posts it’s clear that at no point in my life have I ever had the opportunity to ride such a diverse cross-section of asphalt. From deserts to canyons to mountains to racetracks around the world, this past year has seemingly had it all. From a riding perspective perhaps no year has ever been so defined by such a sense of adventure and even though I continuing to be nagged by the internal need to know these new roads more intimately, I also find myself keenly aware of the fact that without adventure I’d stagnant - both as a rider and as a person.

Looking back at the last twelve months clearly there are somethings that need to change in this upcoming year - things that I’ve either been to lazy to tackle or to indifferent to address - yet with the new year approaching I find myself feeling rather determined to take control of the parts of life that I can actually manipulate. The most important of which for both my mental health and my soul is the act of trimming down the time between rides. I’m simply a much happier camper and most likely a better person to boot when I’m riding regularly. Somewhere along the line things with engines and who I am seem to have merged. Ignoring one no longer is an option if I want to keep my speed up in the corners.