The Pacific Southwest

It is raining when we leave San Francisco for the camping trip in the Sierras. Labor Day weekend in California. I always heard about how sunny it is, but apparently that is only what they want us to think. After an hour or so, we exit the highway to smaller roads that lead to the mountains. It is dry and very warm here. We remove our rain gear. As we finally start climbing into the mountains, the temperatures change rapidly. When we hit the elevation of 4,000 feet, we stop to change into our cold weather riding gear. We ride up the moutain to our camping site, at about 8,000 feet elevation. Damn, it’s cold here!

 

The weekend event is sponsored by a bike group by Los Angeles, and hosts their friends and other groups from around the state. There’s a big group from San Francisco, and I know many of the faces, and camp near them.

We find several of the guys from our Sturgis group, and share the photo album of Waldo. As expected, Mark is very surprised to see the plastic pool toy from Sturgis has made it to California, by way of Yellowstone, Seattle, and Vancouver. It is a very strange feeling to be all the way on the left coast, 3,000 miles from home, and to see so many of my friends. Wow.

During the night, the temperatures drop below 30F. It’s friggin’ cold. I spend much of the night shivering. So much for being in California, eh? In the morning, I am able to get warm by a big bonfire and hot coffee. The temperatures take a long time to warm up to 65F that day. Still brisk. Several of us ride to some hot springs, where we are able to sit in water naturally warmed to hot-tub temperatures. It is great to feel warmth again.

Back at the camp, the group from San Francisco holds a somber memorial service for brothers that have died during the past year. There are three bottles of Jack Daniels set out near some candles. As each bottle is opened and passed around, they share stories and allow themselves to remember their brothers. There were tears, but there was much more laughter. An honrable celebration of how we impact each other’s lives, often without even realizing it. Little things we often don’t think twice about, are events that inspire or cause profound changes in others around us. I am at this event because of friends who, in some way, provided the inspiration to get me to ride across the country. In turn, my adventures inspire others, like Steve, to follow me to Sturgis. I am thankful for all of my friends, past and present.

The evening evolves into more of a party after dinner. The central bonfire, as well as several smaller campfires mark the locations of each party. One group inducts new members in their customary celebration.

It gets cold again that night, and to my rescue, a friend loans me his extra propane-powered heater to use in my tent the next night. I warmed up the air in the tent before going to sleep, and only had to repeat that once during the night. Much better.

On Monday, Labor Day, we’re heading to San Diego. Mark leads, with Paul, Mike, Tom, and finally me. We head down the mountains and into the warm valley. We head towards Los Angeles on the interstate. Miles from the city, there are eight lanes in each direction, filled with cars, trucks, campers, and RV’s returning from the long holday weekend. As soon as the cars slow down, Mark and the others lane-split between the cars. Going 65 MPH just inches from a stopped vehicle is a bit nerve-wracking, but I am glad we are not sitting in the legenday L.A. traffic. At one point, Tom signals an obstacle in the road, a folded lawn chair, right on the dashed line in front of me. With SUVs just inches away on both sides of me, there is no way to avoid it. I make it over the chair safely. Ten miles down the road, we exit for gas and to split off from Tom. I’m a nervous wreck, but also thrilled by the adrenalin rush. We say our goodbye’s and head back onto the highway, lane-splitting for another distance until we are heading out of the city. Remind me not to ride through L.A. again, ok?

As we get closer to San Diego, the traffic picks up. We’re on Mark’s home territory now, and only he knows where we are headed. We exit onto another stretch of highway, and Mark heads immediately for the left lane. Just about the time Mike and I manage to work our way there, Mark heads to the right and off the exit ramp to yet another highway. Shit. Mike and I barely manage to make it to the exit. This repeats at least one more time before we get to Mark’s house.

We spend the next three days in San Diego. Once again, the rumor of sunny California weather eludes me. I get to see the annual thunderstorm. We ride around the city, and see many of the sights and awesome roads along the ocean. We park the bikes and walk through some of the museums at Balboa Park. When we return to the bikes, there is a photographer taking pictures of a model at our bikes. He takes a few pictures including us, and we take off for more riding.

After a few days, Paul, Mike, and I leave for Phoenix. It is the start of my trip towards home. More to see!

Next: Homeward Bound