The morning dawns cold and clear, with nary a rain cloud in the sky. How odd for the rider of Rain Cloud Follows not to have been chased down by my cloud groupies. I’m sure the further north we go, those damn clouds will catch up to our group.

I wake up happy, because not only are there no rain clouds to contend with, but, as far as I know at this point, the worst of the long journey is already behind us. The slog up the I-5 is over, and as a bonus, there is a nearby territory that I am ready to claim for the ever-expanding Kingdom of Rhode Island.

Yes. I know. Whiskeytown is not technically an island, but then again, Rhode Island technically isn’t either. When I am done this Global Not-Technically-An-Island Expansion, I will have difficulty deciding if I should have my palace built in Whiskeytown, or its nearby neighbor:

Dark Meat Snack decides this is the perfect day to try out a new contraption, his twelve dollar Taiwanese Cambelback knockoff.

Umm, I don’t even know what to say, but trust me, it gets even more ridiculous, especially when Dark Meat tries to drink with his helmet on.

Copious amounts of laughter ensue as Goofy McGooferson continues to try and figure out how to interface  his twelve dollar farkle with his much more expensive helmet.

I will say this much for Dark Meat. He’s a stubborn little bastard, and after a few hours, he finally managed to take a quick drink out of his new toy.

I recommend improving the system by filling the bladder with Macallan.

The curves undulate and swerve, twisting, arcing, winding and bending in a dazzling sequence of seemingly endless deviations from yesterday’s straight line boredom. By nine in the morning, this day is already the Best Day Ever, and the scenery and splendor of the Pacific Coast Highway promises to elevate the mood even higher.

Oregon welcomes us in that peculiar way that only Oregon can.

The gas stations in Oregon are staffed by helpful attendants that are all too happy to scurry over to your motorcycle, offering helpful advice such as how to swipe your credit card and where to put the nozzle. Some of these helpful buggers will even pantomime the entire ‘Filling And Paying’ routine, just in case you are a bit slow on the uptake. I have no idea how people in the other forty-nine states manage without such helpful advice.

After marveling at the beautiful Oregon coastline for a few miles, Dark Meat signals me and says, “I’m tired of the fucking ocean.” Peering at the map, I find Oregon Route 33; the smallest gray line from the coast back to the highway. Route 33 turns out to be the most challenging road I’ve ever ridden. The entire route consisted of a tight single lane road, complete with speeding oncoming trucks, deer, gravel, rock slides, more deer, and sheer drop-offs with no guardrail; all requiring 100% concentration and focus. This accidental detour is best characterized as a triple black diamond class A bitch of a road.

This road makes the Tail of the Dragon look like a puny lizard. By the time we reach the highway at the other end I am completely soaked in sweat, sore, tired and supremely happy. I don’t even mind that this detour means more highway time to keep on schedule, the ‘Highway Penalty’ was absolutely worth the trip.

Even the next day, while serving the Highway Penalty sentence, I am happy, although a bit freaked out by a completely random occurrence. The day before, while cruising up the Pacific Coast Highway, we passed a hitch-hiker. I waved and shrugged at my empty back seat. He smiled a knowing smile and offered a half wave. I didn’t think anything more of it until the next day when I see THE EXACT SAME GUY at the highway on ramp trying to hitch a ride . He offers me the same knowing smile and half wave. I’m too stunned to return the gesture.

We stop at a motorcycle shop to get some supplies. Dark Meat replaces his well scratched face shield, and I pick up and install what I consider to be a perfect addition to Rain Cloud Follows.

Finally we can take the highway no more, and duck back onto another excellent road leading to the coast. More twists and turns greet us, along with this embarrassing abomination:

Speechless.

We end our day in Olympia, Washington. I’m lured to a comfy looking place to sleep not only by its colorful sign, but also the offer of ‘Free TV.’

The next morning is spent taking the longest route possible to the airport. Sadly, we park and bag our bikes at the nicer, much more upscale hotel that Fiona will be meeting us at after our tripus-interruptus WWE work hiatus ends four days hence.

The Entire 1537 Mile Preamble Route
The good stuff starts here.