76 Miles and Noth’n but Curves
I’m absolutely aching for the long slow drag I know I shouldn’t have when a single hand reaches out of the driver-side window from the car directly in front and waves me on.
It’s not the sexiest way to pass someone or something but then again this isn’t a sexy passing kind of day.
Rather as the road begins to bend and I pass a sign proclaiming the next seventy-six miles to be curvy, I find myself thanking my lucky stars that to be here and coming to realization that right now the absolute worst thing one could do is rush.
I spend too much time rushing anyway…
This however isn’t a day to ‘just get there’ or a route to easily forget, rather this is the last best spot I’ve ever been and a day to begs to be savored.
A day I want to last as long as I can make it last.
Back home there’s a lot of ‘real’ from the ‘real world’ waiting – all the usual culprits; bills, work, big thoughts about growing older, stuff that requires heavy emotional lifting.
But right now and right here, leading this pack of traffic on this particular day, it’s feels as it’s just me and the road and roar of the pacific.
And as the asphalt breaks left and right and then back again, and again, and again…
So do I…
It’s been too long since I last visited this stretch of Highway-1 and today for the first time in what feels like forever, I can hear its call. I feel its longing. I miss this place and I miss this ride.
For all my travels, this is one of the great, great routes and rides…
One of those fantasies on earth – to be had and held and worshiped and run again and again…
Yet what once was an adventure away is now such a short track lap from home that I can’ t quite wrap my head around it.
As the ST-3 rushes down the hillside, I twist the throttle back further, smell the bite of the cold ocean air and realize that while there’s a plethora of wonderfully, curvy asphalt between Monterey, California and home, less then 2 miles of it requires a freeway.
Never in my life have I been this close to asphalt perfection. Now if only I could learn to let things go and enjoy it more.
Rehab for the Soul
I ask where I am and the man says, “the last, best spot in California”…
Quick smile to myself and I think you’re more right than you know…
Am I really here? Is this real? Am I alive? Is this a dream?
I do not know… but please do not wake me up…
So many thoughts keep running through my head — by far the biggest and most preposterous is whether or not this is real… I feel somehow stuck in the whirlwind of a daydream… I suppose that’s only reasonable when you permanently escape to the place that you always used to ‘escape’ to…
Event thought moments seem entirely fleeting these days, I keep thinking about today and smirking… It lasted a long time and even though I wish it had lasted longer I am quite content with what it was… Roads around here are quite curvy…
While I am not an expert in knowing how to ‘hold on to the moment’, I fully understand that change is just another awesome vehicle in which to arrive in…
This is undoubtedly the best thing I’ve ever done… I wish I had done it sooner…
Reboot, Reload, Restart
I woke up awhile back…
And I stared myself down in the mirror…
It was the hardest thing that I’ve ever had to do…
Because what I saw reflecting back at me wasn’t an image of today or tomorrow, but rather an unfolding series of event leading me straight into the future.
It was a story about the evolution of my life…
But it wasn’t my future… And it wasn’t for me…
That morning I realized that I was watching was another person’s personal narrative unfold.
Someone I didn’t want to become and someone I didn’t recognize as me.
On each successive day since no matter how much I might try to rationalize what I saw that morning, I keep finding it absolutely impossible to shake the feeling that this was not the odyssey or adventure I was destined for…
What is it that we ask of ourselves in the future?
Who is it that we want to become?
Where do we want our paths to lead?
And when you look in the mirror and see two divergent paths standing before you how do you choose which one to take?
These are questions to which I do not have any answers at all. Only the vaguest hints of thoughts… But none of them even remotely begin to result in a solution to the puzzle of my life.
And yet!
And yet! I feel the clock ticking in a way that I have never felt it move before.
Because as of today a third of my practical life is now over.
And it feels like it has rushed passed me as if I were standing on the edge of the track and watching bikes roar right past me at two-hundred miles plus. I see the blur of motion, I hear the whine of the engine, I feel the rumble beneath my feet… But I don’t feel in control. I don’t feel like I am the rider.
And to be honest, I’m having a very, very hard time with that.
I find little comfort in science, less in organized religion, and absolute none coming from the people whose council I’ve depended on for decades.
Everywhere I turn lately it feels very, very lonely.
And not in that glorious break-of-the-dawn twilight emptiness… Rather it feel black. Very, very black. As if there’s heavy contrast everywhere I look and someone intentionally crushed all the blacks to nothingness…
Everywhere I look, I see the walls surrounding life and they’re bearing down.
The hands of time have flown by with a speed and a vitality that completely freaks me out… In those deep, dark places we don’t want to go at night I find myself doing the math and I can see how things are headed and it seems pretty clear to me that a number of term limits are about to expire in the near future.
Life it seems is capable of moving surprisingly fast and without you even realizing that it has gone anywhere at all. And now where I used to see an abundance of limitless possibility, well, now I find myself resigned to the fact that there are no exit strategies that tie up all the loose ends, just doors that lead right back to newer, bigger, brighter, boxes of the same choices..
And I find myself wondering what the struggle is worth… There’s so much turmoil - all the time - whether it be the job, the deadlines, the economy, the various parts of living, the various parts of loving, the endless parade of bills & deals & facts & figures & people you only vaguely know… Are we a species that simply feels compelled to jump from fire to fire? Does this thing called life ever actually slow down? Do we ever get time to take in the vista and deeply exhale? Or does this circus just keep moving faster and faster?
I’m now old enough to realize that there are some practical definitions and limitations to our lives that we cannot change. They are the guardrails that surround our route and define the corridor of how our lives turn. The idealistic nature of my youth has fallen away as the maturity of the mid-live rises and that saddens me. I liked it better when it bright-eyed and shiny…
Life as it turns out is much harder than it used to be and I don’t know why that is or how it changed so radically… But everything these days seems ‘heavy’ — Everything seems like it requires instant analysis and definition. What happened to just having ‘fun’?
And all of this makes me feel rather jaded when I don’t think that’s a feeling I ought to honestly have yet.
The oddity is that on a professional level, it’s never been better. I have never felt prouder or more satisfied with the work. The shows, the films, the stories, the crews, the utter lack of bs in the field. It’s all come together in a beautiful, beautiful way.
And I have never felt so destined to do this particularly task at other point in my life.
It’s all happening… In a good, good way…
Yet for some, work can be everything - and also the only thing – but after much deliberation, I’ve come to the conclusion that’s not at all what I want out of life…
The brighter the worklights have become the more obvious it has seemed to me that I needed to make a change for my soul. Because while I don’t mind working nights & weekends, or long hours, I do mind feeling like the walls are deathstar-han solo-squeezing me to pieces on a nightly basis.
Yet whatever today is, I know it is fleeting…
Whatever this is, is going away…
I can see the expiration date that lies ahead. The great get-off for both myself, and the ones I care about, may not be tomorrow or the next day or the one after that, but it is most certainly coming this way. Amidst the change another era looms on the horizon, just over that ridge, and while I can’t see it just yet, I can certainly sense its approach… I can feel it in a way that I have never felt it before.
The only real question now is how long it’s going to take between the ‘here’ and the ‘there’.
The more I’ve processed this sensation, the more acutely aware I’ve become that life feels like it is desperately slipping through my fingers and above all the other fears that I have in my life, my greatest fear is quite simple…
I am deathly afraid that one day I will wake up and find myself wishing I’d done it all differently.
It is a feeling I cannot stand.
Nor one I want to be a witness to.
There’s no longer a reason to wait and there’s no reason to wonder.
Life is just to short.
So tomorrow I’ve decided to hit re-boot in big, big way.
And to restart my life in a whole new direction.
Tomorrow I move the bikes, the dog, and the business to California’s Central Coast.
Change of course is never easy – it’s a concept that we as humans seem to inherently fight. The status quo often seems like the best course of action because it’s the easiest course of action and as a species we seem to intrinsically desire the path of least resistance.
But if the last few months have taught me anything of value, it is that the easy choice is rarely the right choice. Or the best choice.
And blowing it all up and starting over wasn’t an easy choice by any stretch. Quite the contrary, as there were a multitude of variables that I’ve been sorting through for a long time now. It’s only after months of pondering and introspection and deliberation, that I’ve come to the conclusion that this is something that I had to do for me.
At its most simplistic core, I suppose the most basic truth is that I never quite jived with California’s Inland Empire. Certainly it was worth the attempt and the trial. I’m glad I gave it a shot. As an area the IE has a lot going for it, but want it never quite captured was my soul.
So now I’m ready to reload and restart the machine once again.
To try and enjoy this thing called life.
Because there’s an adrenaline kick that’s been missing in my life. A buzz and a beauty that I ache to feel again in the worst of ways. A nostalgia for the days when my only concern was where I was going riding this upcoming weekend. Back then there were no worries or agitations over being a grown up. In Greek the word nostalgia comes from the phrase nostos, which literally means to ‘go home’ and while I am not going ‘home’ figuratively, I certainly feel like I am emotionally.
Among all my travels if there is one spot on this wondrous planet that has always captured my soul, it is the middle part of the California expanse. No part of the world has ever encapsulated so much of what I believe defines me quite like the Central Coast. I’ve written about it extensively here on the blog and I think what comes through in that writing is that I believe that this area is simply Gød’s country. For years I’ve used the Central Coast as a place to escape to, a place to find myself and my thoughts… Now I’m just escaping here permanently.
It’s not a choice about money or friendships or a judgment call on people or places – rather this is a choice by me and for me because I’m tired of doing the LA hustle. Beverly Hills, The Sunset Strip, The Westside, Malibu, the endless sea of traffic and congestion — these things just don’t interest me any more.
And the Central Coast is a place that I always thought I’d eventually call home – So why not now? Why not today? Why not do it while the clock still is ticking?
There is a personal narrative that I have yet to write. A story of soul and searching and seeing and doing that I haven’t put down on paper. One that I’m gonna alter and edit and revise, and go over and over and over again until I get it right.
Because life is just to damn short.
So starting Tomorrow the ride begins at the end of the driveway with the beginning of the best part of the Pacific Coast Highway. Head inland and you’ve got countless avenues of adventure sprawled across gorgeous mountains. Go even further east and you’ll cross into rural and undeveloped classic California at its finest. The kind of vistas that made John Wayne famous. It is a location-based panacea for riding.
And as of tomorrow it’s home.
Canyon Cometh
Engines wail. Roads bend. Seasons change. But the dirt, the dirt in the middle of the asphalt, that never seems to go anywhere…
Extending the kickstand, I kill the engine and slide off the saddle. Peer out over the reasonably clear San Fernando Valley. And it slowly crosses my mind that this isn’t just a ride — It’s an anniversary.
Of my very first motorcycle accident.
And I chuckle to myself.
Not because I’m fearless. I’m not. Because I can’t believe its been only a year. And yet I can.
Amazing how fast time flies… And amazing how conflicted one can feel at the same time.
On one hand the low-side that happened that day remains remarkably vivid in my mind. I can see it. I can feel it. I remember the sensations, the dread that crossed me while standing above a downed bike. The sense of mourning when the tow-truck arrived. The relief when the adrenaline subsided and I felt alright.
But I was lucky and I know it.
Without a doubt both how I ride and why I ride changed that day. A touch of gravel redefined my life. As much as I might try to hide it, that collection of small pebbles altered the paradigm through with I view riding on the street. What didn’t seem like it could happen to me, suddenly did. And I think that was a good thing in the end.
Yet on the other hand, today I felt so totally in control of the bike, so able to do what I wished, that the thought of crashing seemed nebulous at best. Matter of fact I don’t even know if it crossed my mind while I was actually riding. I roared through the canyons with pep and perk and zippiness that felt fantastic and probably was illegal. There were no dark clouds hanging here, just bright skies and open roads ahead. The image of disaster was elusive and ineffectual and almost meaningless.
Until I stopped that is… What an odd round trip of a year…
Flashing back a couple of months, I remember perusing some leather jackets in a local cycle shop, when a sales gal popped in out of nowhere, saw my scuffed up jacket, and rather matter of factly said, “Looks like you were due”.
And maybe I was… Maybe that’s just the cost of doing business when you ride. I don’t know.
Smokeless Duc
The S2R Outside of Lake Skinner
The sky is bleeding clouds on a dark, dank day as the engine disengages. One quick kick of the kickstand — and it dies completely.
Then all that’s left is the silence. And the ritual.
Letting the clutch out, I lean the bike over, twist the key and slide off and out of the saddle. Seconds later, I’m un-velcroing the gloves, loosening the helmet and unzipping my jacket.
It’s a combination of connected movements that I’ve now done thousands of times, on a whole mess of different machinery, all over the country and the world, without thinking about and yet today, I’m conscious of each and every step.
The order and the process. The A that gets to the B that takes you to C. And so on.
It’s a well-worn practice – a part of the riding experience that happens each and every ride, even on trackdays, and in a strange way there’s almost a comfort to the rhythm. To the execution.
And yet today there is something missing.
Mentally, I start checking and re-checking that internal to-do list that every rider has when they climb off of their bike during a ride.
Taking a breath, I stare out to the East; through the weeds in the fields, above the rolling hills that almost shimmer in the light breeze, and up and over the not-so-distant mountains, which look decidedly muted under such a dark, black, virtueless sky.
The menacing color palette feels haunting. It looks evil and nasty and so damn turbulent.
Yet the shitty weather on the horizon that’s quickly approaching doesn’t even faze me… Instead, my mind seems stuck on what’s been forgotten.
Swinging my head around, I glance westward, expecting to see something brighter, but it’s just a lighter shade of gloomy.
Looking back at the bike, my hands start to fidget just a bit as a thought crosses my mind and I shutter.
This coming Monday will start my 11th week without a smoke.
Unlike previous attempts to quit, this time around has been surprisingly easy with the exception of a few crazed days.
Expect for right now.
In my book, few things in life pair as well as smokes and sportbikes. They are remarkably complimentary if not opposed activities — The long, slow introspective drag of a smoke perfectly counter-balancing the heart-pounding core-human enthusiasm you feel after a jaunt down a decidedly curvy road that you just conquered. For practically the last decade, the combination of these two elements has been the means by which I’ve experienced life.
But not anymore.
Now, I find myself standing next to the bike, looking out at the foul weather that’s coming my way and thinking, it’s time to get back on the road.
Introspection will have to wait. It’s time to ride.
Rumbles on Rails
Ducati Monster S2R 1000 in Temecula Valley Wine Country
The air is vivid and the clarity stark as I gaze out at a classic reproduction of the quintessential California expanse. Wilted brown hillsides that amble up and down in a series of earthquake-riddled waves that feel like they’ll go on forever. There are no homes. Few roads. And not a single Mini-Mart in sight.
Of course, I’ve ridden enough miles in my life to know that at some point this rollercoaster of a journey will come to its inevitable conclusion and fade away. Die a slow death that hardly anyone but a true rider or driver will notice.
The road surface will once again straight-out and be consumed by track homes and manicured lawns and big, airy shopping centers with plenty of parking. Shopping Centers, which oddly enough seem replicate from one corner to the next in an eerie form of reproduction, where only the names on the outside of the buildings seem to change.
For a second I find myself detesting that magnificent sensibility we call urban sprawl – But then it occurs to me that I use it everyday. I exist in it. I pay for it. I live in it. And I use it far more than I’ve gotten out to ride — So who am I to put it down?
The reality is that the roads that make riding fun are not practical anymore. They’re not the heavy-lifting, heavy-duty infrastructure backbone that helps society advance.
Rather curvy roads are post-modern asphalt artifacts left over from a time when life was simple and secluded.
Today it is not.
Today Small Town America is a stone throw away from the big city thanks to a plethora of communication. We talk more. We email more. We surf the ‘net more. We connect more.
Information is our new currency and like the good ‘ol dollar bill, it binds us in a continual vortex of the ‘now’ and the ‘current’.
But right now, none of that really matters.
As the asphalt undulates, a wildly rumbling Ducati L-Twin time-machine is hustling me up and over yet another crest in the journey of life.
And it’s fracking awesome.
I feel so outside of myself and my life, that I find myself quickly wondering why I don’t do this more?
Why don’t I take that thirty or forty minute ride over lunch? Why don’t I escape for an hour or two, here or there? Why mentally do I always fall on the safety sword and tell myself I’m either to tired, or to unfocused, or to busy to get a quick ride in?
Why do I force myself to live a life of riding that’s blocked out on the mental calendar in permanent marker in dedicated riding chunks and not simple, short adventures, even if they’re just for a coffee or two?
Of course, if I did toss the gear on and take shorter, more frequently escapes, would I respect them as much? Would I get the same release? Would I feel as relaxed afterwards?
I don’t know… But I wonder…
Can riding be both less dedicated and as fulfilling?
Let’s Get Naked: A Ducati S2R 1000 Finds A Home
A Ducati S2R1000 Monster at Pro Italia
“Oh boy… Here we go again,” is in fact the first thought that comes to mind the minute I walk into Pro Italia and realize that, yes, I am in fact once again kicking tires…
Not idly mulling about mind you, but striding purposefully through the dealership with intent-to-kill and purchase kind of eyes… The kind of tire kicking that gets you trouble on the 1st, 15th or 30th of each month…
Should I be? Would I be? Can I be? Could I be? These days it’s just damn hard for me to answer those sorts of questions…
It seems that somewhere along the line my personal passion, career and lifestyle all organically merged into me and the result is this odd combination of confusion, excitement and down right blatant moto-lust…
Rolling through the showroom, I’m struck by the fact that it’s probably time to simply accept and acknowledge the fact that when it comes to things with combustion powered engines and two-wheels my normally logically sound life comes crashing down and grinds to a halt. In effect blows up, only to be rebuilt again with either two-valves or four.
What I think I know and what I know I should do, quickly become superseded by an irrational desire to do the foolish. And while I could probably create an elaborate fictional reality as a cover story and attempt to explain why the irrational is actually rational and therefore life always makes sense, well that’d just be a blatant lie that perpetuates some other version of me. What is probably best described as a holdover of my former self. Not that those stories didn’t roll through my head mind you, but rather because when all is said and done, it’s just easier to tell the truth, and more important be honest with yourself…
Simply put, I’ve come to the not so shocking conclusion that I am in fact a full fledged addict… Some folks pick pills or drugs or drinking as their poisons of choice… For me it’s motorcycles… Plain and simple… They are not just vehicles or modes of transportation, but rather magical creatures with destinies that are anything but predetermined… In my mind they are the ultimate unknowns. They take you places you simply can’t imagine until you’re actually there. They live, they breath, they act up, I believe that they are in fact alive. And they do it with passion. With pride. With purpose.
Rationally — oh, great there’s that word again — I suppose one could make the argument that motorcycles are a healthier lifestyle choice than any of the above mentioned addictions. But frankly I’m so sure about that anymore… I spend an exorbitant of time each day thinking about nothing but riding… Even when I can’t actually get out and do the ‘riding’… From the bits to the bolts to bikes to ride itself, it’s absolutely frightening the amount of time one can spend when they’re in love with an inanimate object. From the sport, to the skill-set, to the lifestyle and growing dream to see and ride everything that’s out there, I’m tired of fighting reality… My reality…
I used to fear it, to run from it, to nonchalantly put it down amongst friends to diffuse the accepted mainstream doctrine that bikes are bad, or evil, or deadly, or who knows what else, particularly with those who didn’t share the passion — with those who didn’t see it or understand it — But no more I say… It times to face up to what it is that makes me alive…
Maybe it’s a function of getting close to turning thirty-two this summer, I don’t know, but I feel a certain sense of urgency at work here… As if time is running through me like an hour-glass. I feel as if I’ve waited my entire life to get to this point, to enjoy the life I always wanted. I’ve spent countless hours counting down the days until I could make the ‘choices’ and bear the burdens of life and enjoy the benefits. And now it’s here. I can feel it. I can see it. I believe it. It’s almost as if I can touch it.
Yet I also feel this sense that there’s only so much of me left and it feels like I’ve got to stop fooling around here. It’s time to get serious, not about my career or my loved ones, or my Cable TV package, but rather it’s time to get serious about me. It’s time to stop wasting mental and emotional energy on the things in life that I don’t really care about.
Is that selfish? Is that conceded?
Probably.
But as they say, ‘you only live once’ and of all the things in life I fear the most, the idea of letting one of the best periods of life pass by as a passenger and not an active participant scares the living hell out of me. I’d rather end up broke and destitute but with a saddlebag full of experiences then rich, wealthy and devoid of meaning. Is that youthful ignorance coming to light? Could be. Maybe at forty with a kid in toe I’ll feel differently about it… But right now it not only seems age-appropriate but time-appropriate… It feels like what I should be doing not what I’m supposed to be doing.
So why a Monster? And an outdated one at that?
Well, several reasons really… For starters I’ve had this weird growing fascination with late 60’s and early 70’s vintage bikes lately. BSA’s, Triumph’s, Norton’s, CB750’s, Mach III’s… Probably a direct result of hanging around them during the Twist shoot… There’s something about how when they’re built-out they showcase a certain kind of purpose, and dare I say urgency…
So why not pick one of those up instead? Good question. Simple answer, while I think they look cool, I’ve got no desire to engage in drum brakes, early disc brakes, headshake or a myriad of other ‘early’ technological advances that seem utterly dated by today’s standards.
The Monster — and by Monster, I mean the original Monster penned by Miguel Galluzzi, not the current Streetfighter/Thing that’s badged Monster/Homologated “Am I Brutale clone or Street Triple knockoff or contemporary slice of moto-evolutionary pie” machine — is in its own way as classic of a machine as say a CB750, but relatively speaking modern, safe, sporty and well, sound… It evokes all the bits of the past that I find cool but in something I actually want and will ride.
Secondly, I love the fact that it’s a completely open canvas. The 999 streetbike turned trackbike experience has certainly opened my eyes to customization, in a way that it wasn’t before. The Monster is the perfect platform for that sort of transformation. People have been doing it for years and I’m greatly looking forward to trying a slice of that moto-pie. The possibilities are practically endless and parts are widely available from a variety of resources. Just hunting all the sources down is almost half the fun…
Third, the idea of picking up a true 2-valved air-cooled Ducati fascinates me because it’s a relatively simple engine that’s been around practically forever. In a perfect world it’s an ideal platform to wrench on myself - a skill I have yet to conquer completely but one I certainly want to experience. Ultimately will I? Have no idea. Time right now is a fluid, combustible medium that seems to move faster then I’d like it to, but just the idea that on an engine like this it’d be possible to give it a go intrigues me greatly. There’s something marvelous about its simplicity in my mind.
Finally, it’s a sporty ride just the way it comes from the factory - It’s not Superbike competent, but it’s street-bike competent, and post-crash I have a new found respect and, dare I say, point of view on what I’m looking for when I’m not out on the track. Something that moves well but doesn’t bring out the speed freak demons inside. Right now the idea of a mellower, more comfortable, sport machine sounds damn good… And so it begins… My own kind of Monster Madness…
Back in the Saddle, Part 2
MV Agusta F4 & Ducati ST3 in Malibu
It’s been a great day and it’s been a strange day all at the same time.
While I’d like to say that I’m over the effects of my crash, the reality is that it continues to hang over my head like a weight. It haunts me. It scares me. It continues to affect my riding…
While it was great to get up to the canyons and out on the road once more, I continue to find myself lacking the very confidence that I so desperately want to feel.
Each turn, each corner, each bend of the bike feels harder than it should. Almost destined for failure. It’s a feeling that I so, so wish would go away. Yet it doesn’t. Instead it continually permeates my mind. Perhaps that’s the prudent part hard at work. Perhaps this experience will ultimately make me a safer, better street rider…
In that respect I certainly feel as if my ’street riding’ is considerably safer at the moment then it used to be. I’m leaning less, I’m charging slower, and all in all I’m risking less. Yet it’s hard to get over the fact that what once felt easy, suddenly seems so difficult.
Yet I keep telling myself logically that this is all part of a ‘healing’ process, after all having your first crash is a bit of a traumatic event — I’m not suggesting it’s the most traumatic event ever known to a rider, but it was certainly more traumatic for me then perhaps I realized when it happened.
Taking stock, as of tonight, I find myself feeling as if I need to go backwards several steps before I can continue forward, much like the guy who slows down to get faster on the track. Because it’s not the bike or the road conditions or the weather, but rather it’s the stuff inside my head that’s holding me back — it’s the lack of confidence, the lack of trust, the inability to believe that currently is challenging my sense of security on the machine.
A Glorious Christmas Ride
8. 23. 33. 126. 128. 150. 227. 999. 1340. These are the numbers that continue to roll around in my head tonight. It has simply been such an amazing day that right now as I sit here typing this blog entry and aching all over, I’m blown away with how special and unique the last twenty four hours have been. It all started yesterday with a magnificent ride through the Santa Monica Mountains. Going into this weekend I didn’t frankly know what to expect, but after yesterday’s ride it was clear that we had to take advantage of today. And in unbelievable fashion we did.
For 8 hours we rode the Ducatis from here to there and everywhere in between. According to the clock it seems like a long time and if you knew how my body felt right now you’d believe it, but for those eight hours it felt like one wonderous corner after another planted throughout a collection of diverse settings with amazing views that simply put an ear to ear grin on my face all day. It felt so incredibly special. First and foremost because it was Christmas Day and while the world was unwrapping presents, we were leaning the bikes over in corners with little to no traffic. It truly felt like the world was sleeping while we were out playing. Just good, good stuff.
Today’s Ride Itinerary
Christmas in Ojai ( Approx. Time: 9 AM to 5 pm )
While riding today it occurred to me that perhaps it would be a good idea if I started detailing which roads MotorMilt & I are riding on any given day. As you can see above, I’ve started a short bullet point listed itinerary. I don’t know if this will really work or not, but I thought it couldn’t hurt…
Back to today. Milt and I got ready to leave for the ride at 8am, but thankfully Milt suggested that I check my tire pressure. Turns out that I was running seven psi low in my rear tire. Either the Ducati is eating air pressure for breakfast or I’ve got a slow, small leak back there. The only other explanation I can think of - and this is a stretch - is that when we get rolling in the canyons perhaps the tires heat up more than the Beemers did and that somehow effects how much air stays in there. An Expansion-Contraction theory perhaps, I don’t know.
Once we got that out of the way, we hit the road and did one of our usual morning loops. The PCH to Las Floras to Piuma and eventually to Mullhulland and then breakfast. At that point the greatness of the day was still in its infancy and I was a bit more concerned with the lack of heat. As it turns out Christmas mornings in LA take awhile to warm up. By the time we hit Agoura for some food the outside temperature was finally starting to wake up and hovering around seventy-five. Not to shabby for December 
It was after breakfast that Milt & I decided to try and get up to Ojai. We had talked about it briefly after the ride yesterday, thinking that it might make a good Christmas activity (it did!), but I always figure given how much energy riding the Ducs take it’s a better idea to see how we’re both feeling once we’ve had some food and coffee. Once our destination was decided, we then had to come up with a plan for how to get there. Standing in the parking lot Milt suggested a different route to Ojai, one that I’d never taken or even heard about for that matter. This folks was an all-time first. MotorMilt isn’t called NavigatorMilt for a reason… Usually we take the 101 Freeway from Agoura to the more civilized part of Route 33, however MotorMilt’s suggestion was to head up the 101 but cross over on Highway 23, shoot through Fillmore, pop on to Highway 126 and run that into Highway 150. This essentially back doors you into Santa Paula and subsequently Ojai since they’re almost neighboring towns.
When we got on 23, I had my doubts. It starts as a mega freeway that’s an off-shoot of the 101. But once you get past the Ronald Reagan Library and head down into the beginning of the Simi Valley, the road starts to change. Not fast mind you, but slowly. Slow enough that when it hits you that the road has changed, well, it has. Then just as you’re getting your bearing straight, the road splits. 23 goes North via a decidedly un-highway like off-ramp, while the 118 continues looking like a freeway while wrapping around the backside of the valley. To be honest I’ve never spent all that much time in “The Valley”. Not out of any LA styled disgust for “The Valley”, which I know a number of people around here have, but rather it just wasn’t really on my radar. So I was sort of surprised once we ended up on the post-split part of 23 to find that what exists out there was starting to look almost farm like. There were wooden fences where I expected to see walls and walls of track homes. After a funky jog through what I believe was Fillmore - where there was some really interesting classic Californian architexture going on that I wish I got a picture of - we ended up heading up this oddly rising hill while heading out of town. When we got to top of it, suddenly there was another one. Then some farms and oak lined parks and then suddenly there was another hill. And so it went, hill after hill, slowly growing into mountains. Watching the hills begin to rise and gradually grow up, was almost like seeing a mountain range born before your eyes. It was a real visual treat.
The whole time I felt like I was on vacation. It wasn’t coastal and it wasn’t desert. Not exactly woody, but definitely not flat and definitely filled with a fair amount of vegatation. In many ways 23 started to feel more like an east coast road as we carved our way through the hillside. If there had been falling Autumn leaves it wouldn’t have been out of place. This couldn’t be LA, could it?
23 then lead us directly into the path Highway 126, which if you’ve never been on is a trip of it’s own. Running from the super slab I-5 near Santa Clarita all the way to the ocean and the 101. The road covers quite a bit of mileage if you go start to finish and whole bunch of folks live at each end, yet you’d never know it if you catch up with it somewhere near the middle. Instead of tons of people and tons of traffic, it’s a two lane road - sometimes four - that cuts through farm country. The kind of countryside that was seem more at home in the central valley or up the coast near Cambria. Think lots of green, lots of orange grooves and lots of mountain ranges and little hills splattered throughout.
As we headed west on 126, I was just blown away with how many farms were surrounding us. And while the road isn’t a canyon carver by any stretch of the imagination, it’s got some nice sweepers and thankfully a few decent elevation changes. Nothing major, but nice stuff anyway. The sort of road that lets you dial it back a bit and just enjoy the journey with no sense of guilt for not attacking the road more vigorously. In the moments when the ebb and flow of traffic died down, I kept looking out at these two fantastic mini-mountain ranges that were running along side of the highway and seeing what appeared to be some nicely carved out asphalt roads. Have to remember to check a map and see what exists back there.
Welcome to the Ojai Valley
From that point forward the rest of the ride was as MotorMilt later put it, “simply glorious”. From the 126 we hit Santa Paula and picked up Highway 150 which is just fantastic. An absolute outright frigg’n blast. Once the road got going it was truly an inspirational snaking path of asphalt, rolling up and over a collection of odd if not Classic California looking farmland before shooting through a great section of twisties. Eventually the road peaks and the entire Ojai valley appears right before your eyes and on a day like today it was just magical. Not a cloud in the sky and you could see for miles. No haze, no fog, no smog, nothing but drop dead gorgeous mountain hillsides surrounding a wonderfully green valley filled with fruit. Oranges as it turns out. Once we got down the backside of the mountain, there were orange grooves for miles on end. If I had to guess what LA looked like in the 1950s, this was it. How I had managed to never look at a map and see this amazing squiggly line given all the times I’ve treked up to Ojai is simply beyond me. It was wonderful.
Looking out over the edge
The pre-requisite shot of Route 33
MotorMilt in Action
Once we got into town I started to think about how I’m sure that there are a whole host of reasons why people go to Ojai, California. I on the other hand go for Route 33 and Route 33 only. That simple. If the town went away tomorrow, I’d still go just for this road. It is literally miles and miles of twisting mountain road that cuts back and forth with everything from gentile sweepers you can see from end to end to tightly wound almost decreasing radius corners that have elevation changes. Almost feels as if someone holy put 33 there exclusively for motorcyclists. I know that’s not really true since they built the road to get from the Central Valley to Ojai, but it sure feels that way. I’ve written about Route 33 before after I took the ill-fated 749 through it.
In comparison, the 999 was entirely different beast on 33. The more linear ability of the larger engine simply made getting on the gas coming out of the corners so much more intense and really so much more rewarding. The fact that the engine is almost broken in allowed me to have far more rpm activity, which in turn allowed me to have a bit more fun with my down shifts. And perhaps it’s because I’ve got a track day coming up or because when you add up all the miles I’ve now spent riding both the 749 and the 999 I’m really starting to get comfortable, but I found myself very focused on using both my front and rear brake in conjunction today. I’ve probably mentioned it before, but usually I rarely use the rear brake. Today I found myself very actively engaging it to keep the front end from coming up and on a road like 33 you really notice the difference.
Throughout the first half of 33 everything seemed like it was in slow motion - in a good way - the art of riding was simply happening for me. Corners came up and my reactions felt less like mental exercises and more like habit. On the back half of 33 that all changed.
Suddenly the road dropped down into the valley and any and all signs of life or civilization ended. The road morphs from a canyon pass into a wonderful stretch of long straight aways and giant sweepers that just seem to keep coming at you. And that’s where the power of the 999 shined. A 128 mph shine to be exact. At least that’s what the speedo said I was doing when I finally got a chance to look down on one of the straight aways. Now, I don’t mean to sound like a complete daredevil here but with no cross traffic to worry about or school zones it just seemed like the perfect place to let it rip. And Wowzer, what a sensation. An absolute thrill. I can’t wait to get to the track. Instantly everything was flying by and the difference between going 100 miles per hour and 120 was absolutely incredible. At 120 my helmet was pushing back on my face, the wind was howling and I was just on a complete roll. Until today I’d never gone that fast in my life. And yet the bike felt 100% stable. Almost like it was just getting started. I reached down and twisted my wrist, fully expected to feel topped out - only I it wasn’t. There was plently more to go. The only word that can begin to describe how much power this bike has is endless. It just keeps going and going and going and when you get to that point when it just doesn’t seem possible that there could be anything left, it keeps letting more out.
The 999 at the beginning of the back half of Route 33
Route 33 - Same Location - Looking West
Between goosing it to 128, seeing endless vista after endless vista and ripping through these magnificent endless roads, it’s hard for me not to feel like it was a truly unique and utterly inspiring day. Of course not as hard as sitting here now and thinking about it. I just want to continue to relive it. Again and again and again. Other than feeling physically sore, if I could get back on the bike right now, I would. It was the sort of day that felt so spectacular that I didn’t want it to end. How often do you ride for 8 hours and not want to see it conclude?
Perhaps the part that best sums it up is one particular right hand corner that lies towards the beginning part the of the mountain section on 33 (as you’re heading west). You’re flying down a relatively long straight, hit a hard left hand corner which opens up into a mini straight away that leads directly into this particular right hander. Only the right hander is cambered slightly odd and it has this enormous Tim Burton looking tree lying squarely right down the yellow line. When you’re looking into this corner and prepping for the turn, this tree just looms over you. As if it’s competely unavoidable. I have continued to blow this corner every time I’ve ever ridden 33 since I first started riding it. I suspect this is largely due to the fact that the first time I took 33, on a BMW R1100RS, I fixated on this tree and had a major ‘moment of concern’. Unlike previous days, today while whipping around these same corners I didn’t even see the tree until I was already almost through the corner. It just happened in whirlwind of activity.
The end of a glorious day
For the rest of the ride I was firmly planet with a perma-grin and this undeniable feeling that today was incredibly special. All told, we did about 227 Miles, which puts me at 1340 out of approximately 1550 for a full engine break in. That’s pretty cool. Because even as fast as I was going today, I still didn’t get over 8,000 rpms…
As I think about the ride now, I can’t help but think that for all the local rides we take in a given month, none have been this rewarding and this awe inspiring. For 8 hours I was able to think of nothing but the ride, the bike, and the road. I can’t imagine a better way to spend the holiday. No grief, no commitments, no family chaos, just a physically and mentally challenging ride that seemed to go on for ever. Up until today there was a gulf in how I viewed the local rides we take versus how I’ve felt when we go for six or seven day adventures. A difference in how much relaxation was possible. After today that has completely changed… As Milt said, “It was a glorious ride”.
