Twisting Asphalt - A SoCal Ducati Motorcycle Blog

I’m halfway between falling asleep for the third time this morning and waking up for good when I finally become aware of the sounds of the seagulls outside. At this point it’s no longer early and it’s not quite late either, yet I feel oddly removed from both time and space. There’s a tangible form of peace that’s sitting in the room. Staring me down as I lay in bed. It seems like ages since I felt this kind of distance from the day to day.

Ten minutes later the inner coffee addict comes around calling and it forces me to fight off the temptation to roll over again. Finally, I get up and open the shutters. Gray overcast light pours in, and with it the kind of early morning coastal community scene that seems like it has been forgotten in today’s world. The kind of moving image that suggests that the speed of life is directly proportional to population size. In the bay boats rock back and forth, all manor of birds go about their business, other hotel guests wander about snapping photos of the scenery and a gentle breeze rolls through the harbor, flapping flags with each breath. But none of it happens fast. Rather it’s all ebbing and flowing in controlled motions. Lamaze breathing for life.

When I enter the tiny diner in downtown Morro Bay there are just a few folks in the room. It’s amazing how quiet towns always have quiet places to wake up. Nobody moves quickly, nobody shouts, and nothing seems important. Noticing the leathers and the helmet, the guy behind the counter smirks while already starting to reach for an empty coffee cup before even asking if I want one. But then it must be obvious that I need something hot and warm. “Cold day for riding,” he says as he starts to pour, “Where you headed?”

It’s a question that you get asked a lot when you’re on the road, especially when you’re miles away from the ‘big city’. I smile back and tell him I’m heading up the coast. He says, “Better stay away from the inland roads today, it’s gonna get hot out there”. On a morning like this, hot seems like like a relative term. The gray overcast skies outside are keeping the temps down and even though I’ve only been on the bike for a few minutes, it’s clear that unless it warms up significantly, California Route-1, otherwise known as the Pacific Coast Highway, is going to be a teeth chattering kind of ride.

Sitting down, I sip the coffee and place an order. Then my eyes wander. The walls of the joint are covered in artistic representations of the bay that sits just a few blocks away. Charcoal sketches, paintings, photographs, and even the occasional newspaper article. It’s both homey and yet celebratory. As if living here requires you to acknowledge the beauty that resides here.

A moment later a group of five walks in and sits down at a large table across from me. They look extraordinarily ordinary. Worn flannels covering aged jeans. Normal folks, here to grab a bite before doing whatever it is that they do for a living. The kind of people you’d expect to see in a Ford or Chevy truck ad. Definitely not the regular LA crowd, that’s for sure. The waiter says hello, pours them some coffee, and takes their order. Then he disappears to nowhere in particular. From the corner of my ear, I hear a smiling voice, “You must be the one riding that Red Ducati out there”. I turn around towards one of the gals sitting at the other table and nod.

Several minutes later I’m heading up the coast and feeling a bit dumbfounded. Morro Bay isn’t exactly the middle of nowhere, but let’s be honest, it’s also not where you’re going to find out what’s hot or current either. Looking down at the ST3 that’s happily pacing with early traffic, I’m somewhat amazed that this bike even stirred a reaction in a non-rider at all, let alone a brand specific one. Had I been up here on the 1098 or the 999 I would have expected someone to say something - but the ST3? Outside of the bright red color, I’m not sure it aesthetically screams that it’s a Ducati in any specific way. When I look at the bike, because I know what it is, I see a fun bike. But compared to other Italian motorcycles, up until this point, I would have thought that it would have just passed by as any other bike. To be fair, it’s not the sexiest bike in the world, yet somehow amazingly stills garners attention. Who’d have thought it?

The morning ambles along for about thirty to forty miles: past Cayucos, up through Harmony, around Cambria and then right through San Simeon, the home of Hearst Castle.

And then the real fun begins — Just as the coffee and smokes kick in.

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.

A few miles outside of Big Sur, I pull off and have a smoke. Regardless of how fast or slowly you take CA Route-1, the best part of the road goes by far to quickly for my tastes. It’s here and gone before you’re fully aware of what you’ve just experienced. A highly charged emotional asphalt flashbulb that seemingly goes off in a mere instant. And perhaps that’s exactly why this place feels so special - because it’s rarity makes it romantic.

Hitting the city of Carmel, I take another break and peer over the map. On most trips up the coast, Carmel becomes the launching point towards the 101 and subsequently society. But not today. Not when I’m on a mission to miss the concrete jungle. So instead of heading towards the mundane, I head east on a far less direct path. It’s the kind of inherently foolish Point A to Point B screwy connect the dot directions that only a rider would make - because instead of getting you somewhere quickly and relatively on-time, it instead fills the day with nothing but squiggly lines.

So instead of continuing up the CA-1, I pop on to Carmal Valley Road (G16). The road starts out snaking its way through the Carmel Valley (obviously). Both the area and the road feel classy and grown up. But then ten or fifteen miles away - once you’re past the fancy shopping and fine eats - things change. Quickly and dramatically. The road surface loses a bit of its luster before losing its two lane status altogether. Shortly thereafter you find yourself almost GS’ing your way up and down the hillsides under watchful gaze of nothing but oaks tree. Suddenly the coastal countryside morphs. Soon the scenery is not quite coastal at all. Instead the deep brush and aged oaks give way to a plethora of burnt brown rolling hills and an open airy sensation. Then the road crests the remaining hills and you leave the last bits of the coast behind all together before entering the edge of The Salinas Valley.

There are many valleys in the State of California, some more pleasant to visit then others, but the Salinas region stands among the most important. Nicknamed, “America’s Salad Bowl” (and no I’m not making this up), the vast majority of the salad greens consumed in the US are produced in this one particular valley. It’s an important area for agriculture but also one that’s under attack from suburban sprawl. Mixed among the single story ranches and vibrant fields, are cookie-cutter homes in small sub-divisions that stand out like sore thumbs and brilliantly lit up big box stores. Of course this kind of contradiction is nothing new here - this valley is also famous for being the hard life setting in several John Steinbeck stories, including East of Eden, The Chrysanthemums and Of Mice and Men.

Halfway across the valley stands the 101 Freeway and with it the kind of civilization that I’ve been avoiding all day. This leaves me with a very clear either/or kind of choice, ‘get there’ or ‘go get lost’. Literally. I can pack it in, call it a day and head for the bottle scotch waiting on the other end or I can pull out the map, peer off into the distance and decide to disappear from the edge of the radar screen. Tough call…. Really

So of course I decide to try to get myself lost. Heading South - away from Frisco - it occurs to me that it’s not everyday that you decide the most direct way to get to your final destination is to head in exactly the opposite direction. That’s the kind of idiosyncratic moment that only happens on a motorcycle. Several miles down the road I take the King City exit and start navigating my way through town towards G13.

A few miles later I’m flying faster then I’ve been all day, through bits and pieces of rambling countryside on a roller coaster of a road, towards a minuscule dot on the map called Bitterwater. It’s a tiny town that makes the Mars Rovers look like they’re doing census work in Beverly Hills. The town might not be much (actually I’m not even sure it’s really a town, but I digress), but the road to get there is purely something else. Rising from the Salinas Valley floor, G13 splits the countryside and the surrounding hills while offering an empty but elevating launching pad towards flat out speed.

CA-25, just outside of Bitterwater, CA

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.

More CA-25

Carmel Valley Road

Outside Bitter Water

The Road to Somewhere Else

Additional picts in the photo gallery.

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