Photo By Rick Clemson

I knew I was going to fast when the inside of my helmet started pressing against my face. Few things send as clear and direct of a signal as the pressure of plastic on your chin. It’s a physical indication that exists on the barrier that lies between mere speed and total, outright law breaking insanity. Looking down I watched in sheepish awe as the speedo rolled over and hit the century mark. Glancing off into the Southern distance, the nearly empty asphalt continued to rapidly approach and it was obvious that one way or another today was going to get interesting…

While the rest of the world was just starting to wake up, I exited the I-15 freeway and weaved my way towards the first gas station I could find. After a splash of fuel, I pulled the well-worn Madmap out of the tank bag and started trying to establish some bearings. Knowing where you are at any given moment is perhaps the most difficult aspects of finding and learning new riding roads. Especially when it all looks new and you have no landmarks from which draw on.

Even though I had memorized the map several times already, the fact that I felt compelled to pull it out felt uncomfortably odd. A sort of internal confusion was at hand. And yet the bright squiggly colors on the folded paper told a very promising story – Cunningly curvy asphalt laid ahead – and for the first time in ages life seemed like it was righting itself.

More after the break…

In many ways this sort of emotional conundrum is a microcosm of this new brave world that I now inhabit. Just in the last several days I’ve bounced from total excitement to complete fear while scouring the internet on a quest to find the right roads to ride. At various times I’ve been overcome with diverse sensations and loads of questions: Do great roads exist down here? Was leaving the Malibu Mountains a mistake? Will I ever find that sort of connection with a location while riding again?

This is both an exciting activity and a downright scary proposition to live through. On one level there’s something very special about discovering what’s unknown to you. In some ways there’s a dream that exists, a hope I suppose, that what you find betters what you left behind.

However on another level, I find myself feeling very displaced. Very emotionally naked and disconnected from what it is that I love. Perhaps because the one place in my life where I could lose myself feels like its vanished. Which of course begs the question, what does it take to lose ones self on a motorcycle?

Yet even those feelings aren’t an easy conversation. When I take myself back in time to my previous riding life in the Santa Monica Mountains, I’m very aware that while I truly loved the roads, I was also a bit burnt out on them. After awhile there are only so many loops you can make and no matter how special they are, the feeling of familiarity breeds a certain kind of matter of fact sense. Of course thinking about the past always reminds me that race bike don’t have mirrors for a reason. Looking backwards doesn’t get you moving forward.

Taken as a whole, this ranging dialogue finds me at great odds with so much of what I know and what I knew. Obviously I can’t speak for others, but when it comes to my mental health (shall we say), I’m very aware that I’m at my best when I’m riding frequently. There’s a direct connection between how I respond to the ‘real world’ and how often I’m able to let go of it. No other form of relaxation, hobby, or activity has ever had this kind of power or offered this kind of dependable release.

Over the past several days amidst this internal discussion I’ve continually found myself staring off into the distance for places to ride while seated at a computer. It’s an activity that is both a marvel of the modern world and a failure. Great locations quickly become over-populated once they’re discovered for the masses and yet without their publication, relocated individuals such as myself would never have an opportunity to find them in the first place. On most accounts I don’t really care one way or the other, but I bring this up because when I finally set my sights on spending the day riding Palomar Mountain it never dawned on me just how ‘known’ this location was.

The first clue that everyone and their mother knows about riding Palomar came relatively early on CA-76 when two police patrol cars passed heading in the opposite direction. They were mere precursors for what eventually would be a remarkable law enforcement onslaught. Over the course of the morning I witnessed nearly a dozen LEOs trying their damndest to slow civilization back down to a pioneer pace. Apparently North County San Diego doesn’t have enough crime or there’s a tremendous amount of Police funding available down here. I don’t know which.

Regardless however the Palomar Mountain is quite a sight to see if you’re a sportbike rider. Definitely ranking in a top ten list of public roads I’ve had the pleasure of riding. The surface is generally well paved and the road curves like few others, but it’s the views that truly stand out. By the time you reach the top of this magnificently rising creature all of that baggage that you tend to carry with you on a day to day basis gets is gone. Left behind down near sea level. It’s simply a glorious chunk of carved roadway that makes you remember what it is that you enjoy about riding. After months of limited time on the bike (mainly due to work) it was somewhat mind-blowing to finally have found such a wondrous ‘new home’.

I’m not sure that I’m completely settled, but for the first time in weeks there’s a hint of promise in the air. A thread of continuity that makes me believe that while it takes a little bit longer to get to the right riding roads, there’s definitely somewhere worth venturing off into the sunset to find.

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