I woke up with an itch in the back of my tiny brain yesterday morning, one that needed immediate scratching. Surrendering to the urge, I grabbed my helmet and gear, wandered outside, opened the garage, and answered the primal call. I uncovered my very neglected Yamaha FJR, climbed aboard and thumbed the starter. The whirring and purring of the engine woke me up, and with no real destination in mind, I let the bike take me for a little ride.

Traffic wasn’t too bad, and I passed the time watching the drones packed into their self-contained boxes, commuting to their air-conditioned cubicles. There was the typical assortment of zombies; women applying makeup in the high speed lane, suits yammering into oversized Crackberries or those ridiculous looking Bluetooth earpieces, and of course, the ever present Indy 500 wanna-be drivers changing lanes every ten seconds. Hell, one guy I saw was even reading the newspaper! I accelerated away from these catastrophes-in-waiting until I came to the exit for Highway 2 – better known as Angeles Crest.

Angeles Crest is a fantastic two lane road carved through the San Gabriel Mountains. The designer of this little piece of heaven was either a motorcyclist, or someone that detested straight lines. This road is serious fun with some great scenery to boot.

Thanks to work and other things, I haven’t been riding as much as I would like ( ‘as much as I’d like‘ really translates to ‘every-single-day‘) so, I was a little rusty. I took the corners slowly at first, getting the feel back for the bike and the ride. After a few miles, I started picking up the pace little by little. Soon I felt like Valentino Rossi, ripping though the Corkscrew and winning a MotoGP race at Laguna Seca. I was going F-A-S-T fast!

Or at least it felt that way. Suddenly there was a black blur to my left. With a casual wave, a REAL racing bike that I recognized to be a new Honda CBR flashed by. Startled, I backed off the throttle a bit. Looking in my mirror, I saw three more flashy sport bikes stuck to my tail. I pulled over to let them pass, then decided that since I was a MotoGP winner, I could hang with these guys.

Right. I hung with them for about three turns, then realized that if I kept up with their pace, a LifeFlight would be in my immediate future. The little sport bike train got smaller and smaller until they disappeared over a hill.

About forty miles down Angeles Crest is Newcomb’s Ranch. It’s a great place to stop for a drink or a light lunch, and there are always beautiful motorcycles to oogle and drool over and cool riders to swap stories with. More then once at Newcomb’s I’ve had a five minute rest stop turn into an hour or more bullshit fest.

As I pulled up to Newcomb’s Ranch, I spotted the four sportbikes that left me in the dust, then I noticed the riders, who were just about finished taking off their riding gear – meaning they’d already been there a while when I finally puttered by.

When the last guy took off his helmet, I saw a flash of white. That guy, who happened to be the one in the lead on the CBR, could have easily doubled for Santa Claus with his extremely white hair. He had to be at least sixty years old. And he was the YOUNGEST looking of the group!

Needless to say I was WAY too humiliated to stop in.

But I’ll go back to the Crest, and though the closest I’ll ever get to a MotoGP is scoring a pit pass to Laguna Seca, someday, maybe someday, I’ll be quick enough to ride with grandpa on the CBR.

Author: frenchy