I got away with a ‘Last Ride’ once, and it was a good thing for a number of reasons. But anyone can get away with anything once, blind squirrel and all that. Pulling off yet another ‘Last Ride’ would be a real accomplishment.

I started dropping hints early. It didn’t take Fiona long to figure me out, but then again, it never does. “OK, OK! One more ride. Fine! What do you have in mind?”

“San Francisco?” It’s just a scant four-hundred fifty or so miles away. While I failed to mention that fact, I’m sure she knows the layout of the land, and exactly how far away San Fran is.

“We’ll see.” That’s as good as a yes in my book.

“Cool. Let’s leave early tomorrow, around seven or so.”

Like I said, Fiona has me figured out, and knows when I say seven, I’m shooting for nine, which in reality means we’ll hopefully be almost ready to go sometime after ten.

I was up at seven, looking at various websites to plan the best route. Sleeping Beauty lived up to her name that morning. By eleven it was obvious we weren’t going to have enough time to get all the way to San Francisco, and an alternate plan – just get out there and see what happens – quickly developed.

Our improvised route took us east down the crowded 210 Freeway, and almost immediately, we were immersed in my favorite of adrenaline inducing activities – lane splitting.

This possibly suicidal activity is questionably legal, but definitely allowed in California. Surprisingly enough, most of the people stuck in traffic actually move aside to make a little extra room for a lane splitter, which is contrary to their normal behavior of not paying attention to anything at all when driving. I’m not a huge fan of riding in between rows of slow moving cars, but I am less of a fan of being a sitting duck, so when in California, I do like all good Californian riders do; I keep moving.

The lane splitting paid off, as we weren’t killed, and as an added bonus, we made it to my first fun route, Little Tujunga Canyon Road, affectionately known as ‘Little T’ without wasting the rest of the day stuck in never ending traffic.

It’s not a very long road, but it sure packs a wallop. This little bundle of joy twists and climbs, twists and winds, twists and turns up and down all through the San Gabriel Mountains. There aren’t many houses out there, in fact there isn’t much of anything at all, but people must live around this road somewhere, unless they built it just for me and Fiona to ride on.

This road, so close to my adopted home, is dangerous. Not dangerous to life and limb, dangerous to my bank account, because a nice, new Ducati 1098 would be perfect on this road. Not sure how or even if I could talk my way into that one…

‘Little T’ ended far too soon, dumping us off on The Five, an overly congested superhighway. My plan was to take that highway to another highway, which would eventually lead us to Ojai, and another fun road, Route 33. Feeling like a hotshot after discovering Little T, I decided to try to find another shortcut to Ojai.

What can I say? Some things look better on paper.

One thing that always looks good to me, on paper or in person, is Route 33. My friend Dan introduced me to this excellent road way back in 2003.

A Rented Harley and a Younger Dan, Back in 2003.

Way back then, I had a few days off between jobs on the West Coast, and rather than fly all the way back to the Kingdom of Rhode Island and back, I opted to stay out in California, rent a Harley and ride for a few days. I didn’t know much about the area, just that there were supposed to be some good roads out there. I met Dan at a stop sign in a rainstorm (naturally), and he led me over to one of the best roads, Route 33, where the sun was shining brightly. That evening at his house, we made a plan to ride to Alaska, which we did one year to the day we met. We’ve been friends ever since, though Dan has since moved to Australia – an island that I plan to claim for the Kingdom someday soon.

Route 33. As Close As I’ll Get To Heaven.

The sun shone brightly on Route 33. I smiled broadly as Rain Cloud Follows dipped deep into the curves. I love this road.

At the town of Maricopa, we had a decision to make. Continue north and go home the next day, or turn west towards The Five and suffer through the pain of that clogged artery all the way home. It really wasn’t a tough decision at all. We continued north.

The sign a few miles past Maricopa read, ‘Welcome to Taft – The Best of Places.’ It couldn’t be more wrong. Being in Taft is like being backstage at Disneyland, there’s a bunch of stuff that you know is there, and know is probably necessary, but would rather not see. Taft is the Best of Places if you have stock in Nodding Donkeys, more commonly known as pump jacks.

These devices litter the countryside, sucking crude oil out of the ground, forcing it through pipes that further litter the countryside to nearby refineries. Taft is also the home of a federal prison, as well as a gigantic Waste Management garbage dump. According to Wikipedia, the town of Taft is also known as a huge methamphetamine consumer (i.e. “They’re All Fucking Tweaking“). The Best of Places, indeed. We stopped for some cheap gas, and were bombarded by weird signs offering free things. Here is a small sample of what we saw:

Beautiful. We couldn’t get away fast enough.

Fortunately, there was light at the end of the meth lab, and it wasn’t a fire. It was Route 58, another of the Golden State’s great roller coaster roads.

Route 58 is a desolate road. There’s not much out there except farms and more farms. Miles and miles of fences. A few hills. It’s the perfect road to twist the wrist a bit and blow the carbon out of the motor. Not that I would ever do such a thing, as it would be illegal, but it would be the perfect place, should one be so inclined.

After our little high speed stretch, we slowed down to take in the scenery, and made a few new friends.

It’s a good thing we slowed when we did, because there, in the middle of absolutely nothing, was a California Highway Patrol car, sitting and waiting for someone to race by ‘blowing the carbon out of the motor’. As we approached, a few things went through my head.

One: What the hell was the point of this police officer sitting out there on the shoulder of a completely deserted road?

Two: Am I going to get a ticket?

Three: Did I get all the carbon out? Because if I didn’t, the ticket would be pointless.

I must’ve woke the cop up, because just before I passed him, he jammed on the gas, spun the car around and took off at top speed – in the other direction! Score one for the good guys!

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

We wound our way west until we ran out of daylight, and picked the little town of Morro Bay to be our home for the night.

And oh, what a night it was…

Author: frenchy