Harley and Me

In front of Rosie's Bench, Volcano, California.

There are communities within communities. While the brotherhood of bikers (all genders included) is universal, bikes of a feather do flock together. Never was this more apparent than on Saturday's ride through the Gold rush foothills of Amador County, CA. Seven riders from our moto club at work showed up for the ride: 6 were on Harley Davidson Motorcycles, including the matching jackets, bandannas, and even special tiny bells hung on the underside of the bike to ward off highway gremlins. There is so much I do not know about the customs and protocols of this very friendly gang.

Like the bellows of an accordion, the gap between riders in formation expands and contracts to maintain the safe zigzag pattern as the traffic and road conditions change. As the only sport bike, and foreign to boot, I felt like an F-15 fighter among a posse of Boeing 747s. We rode through ghost towns like Plymouth, Drytown, Jackson, Fiddletown and Volcano. It is not an exaggeration to say that nearly 100 motorcycles were parked in front of the boardwalk hosting the historic Rosie's Bench. Every single bike but mine was a Harley. It reminded me of Sesame Street when the puppets sang, "One of these things doesn't belong, one of these things is not like the other..." It wasn't hard to find the outlier.



I have never been a member of a gang, but this group of gentle riders earned my respect and undying gratitude for letting me join the club, if only for the day.

Travel Details

Miles ridden: 253
Duration (actual saddle time): 5 hrs 9 minutes
Average mpg: 49
Average speed: 48 mph
Maximum speed: 92 mph (very briefly to reform the 7-bike zigzag on I-80 when 2 cars separated the group)

Poppies by the Bay

Sunday afternoon provided a warm, calm day which made the hills come alive with vigorous blooms. I noticed the poppies are abundant this year, especially after the so-called "normal" rainfall we have enjoyed for the past several weeks. I rode the Shiver up Reliez Valley toward Pacheco, then turned toward Orinda which takes one along the Bear Valley Road. This road is frequented by bicyclists and motorcycles, and everyone shares the road to play nicely. I noticed the poppies (above) along the berms by the bike lane and I could not resist stopping.

After reaching the San Pablo Reservoir, I turned south toward Orinda, taking the Fish Ranch Road top of Grizzly Peak. Many magnificent views are offered from this road on the ridge. The flat light of afternoon and the sun's glare on the Bay made the entire City a surreal monochrome. What a stark contrast to the green hills and blossoms just a few miles away.

My last discovery was a splendid off-leash dog park near the Caldecott tunnel. Apparently, the "Old Tunnel Road" has been converted into a Park where one can walk man's best friend off leash. Roman and I will have to return and investigate further.

Fog? What fog?

Joy gave me a book of moto rides in California for Christmas 2008. (Yeah, I'm slow). One of the easy-to-access recommended destinations is Mt. Tamalpais in Marin County. Anyway, today Molly and I took advantage of a break in the welcome rain storms and we sought the summit. The road poses far more interesting terrain than my straight-line commute. Ascending to the summit involves following a tightly coiled 2-lane road with many blind corners, magnificent views and the opportunity to share the lane safely with brave folks on bicycles.

Molly made textbook perfect turns on the unfamiliar road, braking before the turn, and then maintaining speed or accelerating through it. I like following her because we are of like mind: to arrive safely and have fun. As we rose above the mist and low fog, we enjoyed glimpses of the Pacific Ocean, the foothills in Marin and even San Francisco. The summit had limited sight lines and was really a parking lot providing access to trails which cover the park. Part way down, we paused at a remarkable overlook and met a delightful French tourist from Dijon. He graciously took our picture and tolerated my Belgian accent.


We ate lunch on the deck of the Mountain Inn overlooking spectacular estates in Mill Valley. I recommend the pulled pork sandwich, yet I'm confident Molly enjoyed her heuvos rancheros. This outing was a very peaceful and beautiful experience, and it's definitely worth doing again.

The Sutro Tower in SFO as seen above the fog on Mt. Tamalpais


Total distance travelled: 103 miles

Average Fuel economy: 45 mpg

Total saddle time: 3 hours 5 minutes

Number of bridge crossings: 4

Highest gear used on Mt. Tamalpais: 2nd

Parking is Such Sweet Sorrow

I avoid crowds, like the ones you might expect Christmas shopping on a Saturday afternoon in Walnut Creek's Broadway Plaza. While I do enjoy seeing the decorations and sensing the joys of the season, too many people are, well, just plain cranky. The best display of this attitude is in parking lots where, for reasons I do not understand, ordinary people become filled with wrath.

So I rode ma moto to Walnut Creek, knowing that there are dedicated motorcycle parking places in the multi-story structure near Crate & Barrel. I did not gloat (visibly) as I passed a line of impatient drivers held up because someone far, far ahead was waiting for a vehicle to back out of their space. "Why was this particular space sought after?", I wondered. Anyway, I visited L'Occitane, Nordstrom and the Ecco shoe store, making purchases in all three. With my goods safely packed into my long and flexible backpack, I returned to find my bike one of 3 in the motorcycle area. "Nice ride" was written on a business card and stuck in my instrument cluster. I guess that's a compliment.

Leaving Walnut Creek, I noticed the drivers were beyond impatient, navigating erratically which is dangerous for those of us with less "buffer" to protect our bodies. So I took the back roads home, greeted by a wagging Roman in the front yard. We got inside just as the rain showers began. It was a very satisfying ride, especially the parking.

Out of the fog and into the frying pan

I am Molly’s wingman. From a moto enthusiast perspective, we are an odd couple: an Italian naked street bike and a high-performance motard. From a rider perspective, we are cut from the same cloth, seeking a safe and exhilarating ride while improving our skills and confidence.

We have had two great excursions on our motos. During an unusually warm spell in January, we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge together, riding safely in formation to appear as a “unit” to other motorists. We toured the Marin Headlands and looped back across the GG Bridge for a delicious lunch in the Avenues.

Our 2nd excursion to Moss Beach Distillery included many microclimates relatively short trip. We experienced calm sunshine in the Avenues, blowing fog on Skyline, crosswinds near the beaches, heavy overcast at Devil’s slide. I noted the lowest temperature at Skyline, about 52 degrees, much cooler than I expected for July. The ever-changing lighting, wind and road surface conditions offered many opportunities to be a better rider. Even though traffic was not particularly heavy, we had an ample supply of drivers with poor judgment to keep us on our toes anticipating our next defensive maneuver.

After a wonderful lunch in the City and time spent reflecting on the day, I headed across the Bay Bridge toward home where I knew it would be much hotter. The temperature in San Francisco was in the low 70s mid-afternoon, and by the time I reached the Bay Bridge the air temperature had dropped to the 60s. Approaching the Caldecott tunnel which connects the cooler Bay Area to the warmer inland Diablo Valley, I noted the gage read 72. Exiting the tunnel, my air temperature gage behaved more like the second hand of a watch as the indication read 80, 81, 82, 83 and kept going. In less than a mile it read 90, 91, 92, 93 and by the time I reached my exit at Lafayette, the reading peaked at 103 degrees.

The effect of dry, hot air on my body was powerful, even through my protective gear. I realized how quickly the moisture was leaving me, and that soon I would be a mummy if I didn’t reach home to rehydrate. The last temperature I saw was 105 degrees when turning into my driveway, relieved to have made it. So in a mere 30 miles, I drove out of the fog and into the frying pan.

(A rare fogless day from the Marin Headlands)

Turns Out You Can't Get Anything You Want....

....at Alice's Restaurant. But that's okay because just the experience of being there was, to use a '60s phrase, "Cool!". Yup, I'm a Bay Area Native who had never been to this infamous place before Sunday. But thanks to my Riding Buddy, Molly, we found ourselves heading south on Skyline to the little berg of Woodside. At an odd sort of confluence of small, country paved roads, one finds a collection of restaurants with many motos parked in front. To my casual eye, I was the only Italian sport bike in the lot. But that's okay because I'm used to being the outlier.


Molly and I have the same approach to riding: have fun and arrive safely with all body and bike parts in good order. We thoroughly enjoyed the road winding through the redwoods, despite the 49-degree air temperature. The sun came out which kept us comfortable while we enjoyed our lunch outdoors (the propane heater at our table did not work). I enjoyed holding on to my cup of hot apple cider as much as I enjoyed raising my core temperature by drinking it.

On the ride home, we found ourselves behind an inexperienced rider which concerned me for safety reasons. One never, ever applies the brakes on a moto while banked in a curve; however, this person did so repeatedly which told me that s/he did not really know how to ride. At the first legal and safe place to pass, I did so, but Molly chose to hang back.

We met up at the Scenic Overlook where Hwy 92 took us on separate paths home.

My trip home took me across the San Mateo Bridge, then up 880 briefly to 580, then 13 and the Caldecott Tunnel to 24. The total saddle time was 2-1/2 hours, my longest to-date. And I arrived comfortable, yearning for more. I am not sure where Molly and I will end up next...perhaps at the Beach during a window of nice autumn weather when the wind is not blowing sand across the Great Highway.

Here's Molly's account of the trip:

http://m-dash.blogspot.com/2009/10/alices-restaurant.html

Bird Strike

Recently some large birds, Canada geese I believe, flew into the engines of a commercial jetliner causing the pilot to perform an amazing emergency landing in the Hudson river. While everyone survived, there were injuries for some on board. And for the next several weeks, any tidbit of a story that involved birds, airports and jets was trotted out as "news".

I have found that some species of birds fly in unpredictable paths during their takeoff. Most notably, doves seem to fly erratically whether taking off because they were finished eating or to avoid being eaten. I marvel at what sounds like squeaky wings when they suddenly depart from beneath our birch trees in the front yard.

On a motorcycle, one must anticipate the trajectory of any object on the freeway so that appropriate changes in course and speed can be made to avoid a collision. Sometimes, very large bugs become visible with less than a second to spare, and I know that my leather jacket will protect me from harm as the insect ends its life on my torso. Almost as soon as my brain identifies the object, it calculates and compares our relative paths to alert me whether a collision is inevitable. For these smaller critters, I do not intend to swerve or put myself or other drivers at risk. But how would I react if the "critter" was a bird?

A few weeks ago, I was commuting to work on a particularly clear and bright morning. My route takes me past a beautiful wetland along Highway 680, a wetland frequented by many kinds of birds. I will never know the reason the group of doves (hardly a flock) decided to launch as I approached them at 66 mph, but they did and my brain did its calculation. Riding as a commuter in the diamond lane, I have more flexibility than motorists to my right; however, one stragling bird was unable to gain enough altitude across 3 lanes of traffic and it was clear we were going to meet violently. I held on to the handlebars tightly and leaned my torso forward to be a low and as battering ram-like as possible.

Full-face helmets have their advantages, not the least of which is keeping all debris out of the driver's eyes, nose and mouth. Shaped like the nose of a 747, my helmet tends to deflect most things caught in the breeze as it divides around me. The clumsy dove, however, was too large to be influenced by my eddies as it slammed into the brow of my helmet just above the visor. When you consider that the dove was hit broadside by a solid object traveling 66 mph, well, the outcome is clear.



My moto did not waiver in its course, my helmet was easily cleaned, I was not injured, nor did I have to make an emergency landing. Survival of the fittest indeed applied as the herd of doves was thinned by one that day.

3 Bridges

The Bay Bridge is actually a double-decker bridge-tunnel-bridge spanning the San Francisco Bay from Oakland to "The City". The tunnel is on Treasure Island (Alcatraz is in the foreground).

Depending on what you consider the boundaries of San Francisco Bay, there are from 5 to 9 bridges which cross it. From south to north: Dumbarton, San Mateo, Bay Bridge, Golden Gate, San Rafael, Crockett (2 spans) and Benicia (2 spans). Today I celebrated the beautiful clear, mid-60s weather by riding ma moto across 3 bridges: Bay Bridge into San Francisco, the Golden Gate to Marin County, and then the San Rafael to complete the loop and return home.

Parking at any of the vista points in the Marin Headlands just north of the Golden Gate resulted in the Shiver becoming a conversation starter with locals and tourists alike. A very nice fellow named "Mack" took my picture (below).

The San Rafael bridge is also a double-decker, just like the Bay Bridge; however, it has recently been renovated and the driving surface is uncommonly smooth. Most of the Bay Area highways are in poor condition, but driving across this bridge was an unusually smooth trip.

Everyone has seen the Golden Gate in person or in movies. Still, there is nothing quite as impressive as standing on the Marin Headlands and seeing this magnificent span with "The City" in the background. Can you belive it's January? Drought concerns aside, it was an exciting and relaxing trip.

Scents

Today I drove across the San Francisco Bay Bridge into the City for the first time on my moto. Driving a car deprives one of many sensual experiences, especially the scents in the air. And I suppose sensory deprivation is an objective of automotive design. How did luxury come to mean being separate from the world around you?

Besides sitting much higher on my Aprilia than I do in a car, I am keenly aware of the scent, temperature and character of the air. My full-face helmet is vented in the front, and a steady stream of fresh, ambient air is provided to me to keep the visor clear for safety. But the real joy of a clear visor is found in the nose, not the eyes.

January 10th was remarkable in many ways: the weather was crystal clear, the air was transparent yet savory, and I found myself seeing things with a new relevance, a new perspective. I was going to join my dear friends for lunch in the Mission, but my adventure began when I crossed the Bay Bridge on my way to their home in the Avenues.

As I drove through City streets, I could detect specific smells which easily overpowered automotive and diesel exhaust. Nearing Golden Gate Park, I distinctly smelled Eucalyptus, as if I was in the grove myself. Along Fell Street, I was suddenly in an unmistakable cloud of cannabis, that sickly sweet smell which is unpleasant to non-smokers like me. Passing restaurants and bakeries, I smelled garlic, yeast and sugar. Each City block brought different scents, some new and some familiar.

I find it amazing how familiar scents can take one's memory back to a very specific event in time, perhaps a memorable meal, a "comfort" memory of one' s childhood, or even college days. The nose is deprived when in a car. But on my moto, I am more closely connected to the world.

I love my Shiver 750, but not Cinderella

I am intrigued by good design no matter the device. When I saw the Aprilia Shiver 750, I was captivated by the uniqueness of the design, from minimalist truss frame to triangular exhaust pipes. Pictured on the right the day I took delivery, it is outfitted with tank and tail bags to carry whatevery I please as I ride. Normally, I ride with just the tail bag when I commute to work. This style of motorcycle is called "a naked bike" because it lacks the faring which is commonly used to protect the rider from wind.

Before buying the bike, I took the CHP approved motorcycle safety course to ensure that my reflexes and balance were up to the task. Passing the course results in a certificate that not only allows you to waive the DMV testing, but it also saved a significant amount on the insurance. Probably for safety reasons, the training course is done on relatively small bikes, only 250cc displacement, a sort of VW Beetle in the motorcycle world. By comparison, the Shiver is a Porche, ready to accelerate in a heartbeat to any speed you can manage.

The Shiver 750cc is a remarkably powerful and lightweight bike: 95 horsepower at the crank, and only 415 lbs wet. I took delivery after waiting nearly 4 months for the first shipment of Shivers to arrive in the USA from Italy. The sea-going cargo passed through customs in Georgia, and then my bike (among the first in California) was trucked to the dealership in Livermore. Because I was not familiar with how the bike would handle, I chose not to take the Freeway home. While it would have been the most direct route, it would have required driving over 70 mph just to blend in with the aggressive traffic on Hwy 580 and Hwy 680.

Taking the back roads through a rural valley toward the city of Danville, I was having a wonderful low-speed adventure. New brakes are "grabby", so I was learning how to brake with just one finger on the lever when I encountered an unanticipated obstacle to my journey. Arriving at a T-intersection and planning to turn left toward Danville, I saw what appeared to be hundreds of women on bicycles dressed in various costumes. Most included some form of a tutu, petticoat, sparkly leg warmers, ball gowns and even gaudy costume jewelry. Some of the women had what appeared to be magic wands. This event turned out to be the annual "Cinderella Ride", and I was the only motorized vehicle in the mix.

The road was narrow, no bike lanes or shoulders to speak of. So the bicycles were occupying the paved lane where automobiles would normally travel. Many of the women were riding two or three abreast, deep in conversation and oblivious to my presence. For safety, I turned on my emergency flashers and drove about 15 mph or less beside them traveling in the same direction. I did not use my horn for fear of upsetting one of these magical storybook characters who might have turned me into a mouse, or a newt, or something equally inconvenient.

As I passed small groups of them, I think they perceived me to be an escort of sorts. This was an acceptable arrangement, though I was mindful that every blind corner could have produced an unintended collision. At one point, we did see EMTs and an ambulance administering to a heap of Cinderellas who had apparently lost control on the abrupt edge of the pavement and tangled with the barbed wire fences mere feet away. I did not count the number involved, instead remaining focused on not having a collision of my own.

Eventually, we reached Danville where the road opened up into 4 lanes with proper bike lanes for the Cinderellas who had made it that far. I exhaled for the first time in many miles. Suddenly, the freeway didn't seem nearly as dangerous as what I had just been through. I took the northbound on-ramp and found that in 3rd gear I can accelerate from 30 mph to 80 mph in just a few seconds. Quickly shifting up into 4th, 5th, and finally 6th gear, I settled in to cruise mode behind an 18-wheeler car carrying truck. I knew no automobile driver would want to be behind that truck, so my strategy was to follow the truck until I reached my exit. This plan worked perfectly, and I arrived home with my new Shiver, grateful for the experience.

God and Technology

I bought an Italian street bike in April ostensibly for commuting, but also to experience the freedom I knew as a younger man riding a motorcycle in Belgium. I'll extole the virtues of the Aprilia motorcycle (a.k.a. "Ma Moto") in another post because the bike merits its own short article. The point of this story is how God speaks to me while I'm riding. No joke...well, maybe.

I have a GPS on the motorcycle in case I need directions to the nearest In-'n-Out Burger, or to explore routes on unfamiliar back country roads. For safety, the GPS communicates with speakers in my helmet using Bluetooth technolgy, just like a cell phone. The lack of wires is a huge bonus, and being able to keep my eyes on the road and traffic while listening to directions from the GPS is very safe and reliable. The GPS also plays MP3 files, so I can listen to music or downloaded Podcasts while I ride. The remarkable feature is that when the GPS needs to provide a direction, such as "In 500 feet, turn Left on Contra Costa Boulevard" it temporarily suspends the MP3 file, delivers the instruction and resumes the MP3 file.

So one Sunday I was riding to church and even though I know the way by heart, I put the destination in to see whether the GPS would recommend a different route. I was also listening to an MP3 file from Pray-as-you-go, a website which provides a daily inspirational recording including short scripture, music from all over the world, and thoughtful reflection. Visit  www.pray-as-you-go.org

 

I was enjoying the beautiful sunny morning heading to the 8am service along my normal route. As I neared the highway the MP3 file reached an important part of the scripture only to be interrupted by the GPS. This is what I heard:

"Jesus entered the temple, looked around and said....Take ramp on right, to Highway 24 West!"

I nearly drove off the road laughing inside my helmet! The timing could not have been more perfect.

Yes, God knew where I was at that instant, and He saw me safely to church and home again.