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.

The Bee

The Knoll Pool at The Ridge is aptly named because the desert community of Minden, NV is visible to the southeast while the green Lake Tahoe basin is visible to the north. At 7800' of elevation, I chose to gently glide through the pool rather than doing laps, taking my time to acclimate to the reduced oxygen.

What summertime and pools have in common at most elevations is the inevitable discovery of a drowning insect. The honeybee was nearing the end of his struggle, legs flailing uselessly as his body bobbed wherever the children's waves sent him. I paused, remembering the two times I was stung, and the fact that I'm allergic to bee stings and did not have my Epipen handy. In less time that it takes to read this sentence, I remembered that nasty yellow jackets had stung me without provocation, which is how I learned of my severe allergy. This honeybee was probably just doing his job when he became stranded by an errant splash of pool water.

I cupped my hands under water to ensure adequate cushion for the bee, and then I lifted my make-shift bowl and set him on the pool deck. Initially, he walked, staggered really, in an erratic path. Perhaps this was the remnant of his frantic attempt at swimming. Then he abruptly stopped walking and stood still on the warm pool deck in the full sun. I stayed in the water, watching him, cautioning approaching barefoot humans to give him a wide berth.

After several motionless minutes warming in the sun, the bee began to "groom" himself, forelegs wiping over his head like a fly, tentative movement of wings, abdomen noticeably flexing. I thought this was good news and hoped a hungry Bluejay did not intend to appear and ruin the moment.

When the bee suddenly lifted off and flew away, I felt a sense of connectedness to creation. What a perfect way to ease into a summer nap.

2 Bucks a Stem

The flower market in Los Angeles is 2nd in size only to the one in Amsterdam. Our amazing host Wally used his professional credential and took us at 6am to select flowers for the rehearsal dinner which will occur outside in their magnificently manicured garden. Exotic flowers of all types tempted us, but the blossoms that won out were deep purple and coral peonies.

Donald and Wally's home is a magnificent 1920s mansion in Los Feliz, formerly owned by Basil Rathbone and the prizefighter Jack Dempsey. The party of 70 people will easily fit around 8 tables on the expansive lawn. I toured the garden with Wally, admiring all kinds of blooming plants from complex hibiscus to dalias. Seeing Donald's garden of succlents reminded me of my mother who grew Hens and Chicks as well as roses and dalias, until the deer ate everything. The pool is the original shape, but the diving board has been removed in favor of a solar cover which raised to provide shade. Pretty neat design!

The slate roof and bow windows compliment the original timbers on the interior. Only the plumbing, heating and air conditioning have been updated. The original structure is maintained in an authentic style. Donald and Wally have selected furniture which completes the sensation of being present in a much different and special era.

Our guest quarters are right next to the pool, and we look out at the beautiful setting beyond. What a great way to destress, sip coffee (or wine depending on the time of day) and just "be".

Preparation for this event has been a joy-filled experience! Friday is the rehearsal dinner, and Saturday is the wedding. Jon and Eva will begin their lives together with the best send-off we can give them.

The Dog

When I come home, Roman is always happy to see me. His tail wags enthusiastically as if we have been apart months instead of hours. Sometimes his entire body bends in the middle as if to emphasize his silent greeting. No matter my mood, no matter how good or tough the day has been, the Dog is steadfast in his acceptance of our pack, and in his joy at my return. Writers with much better vocabulary have penned some thoughtful reflections which I wish to share.

The dog is the only animal that is capable of disinterested affection. He is the only creature that regards the human being in his compassion, and follows him as his friend; the only one that seems to possess a natural desire to be useful to him, or from a spontaneous impulse attaches himself to man. We take the bridle from the mouth of the horse, and turn him free into the pasture, and he testifies his joy in his partially recovered liberty. We exact from the dog the service that is required of him, and still he follows us. He solicits to be continued as our companion and our friend. Many an expressive action tells us how much he is pleased and thankful. He shares in our abundance, and he is content with the scantiest and most humble fare. He loves us while living, and has been known to pine away on the grave of his master.

- William Youatt, from The Dog, 1845


Calm though not mean, courageous without rage,
Serious not dull, and without thinking sage;
Pleas’d at the lot that Nature has assign’d.
Snarl as I list, and freely bark my mind;
As churchman wrangle not with jarring spite,
Nor statesman-like caressing whom I bite;
View all the canine kind with equal eyes,
I dread no mastiff, and no cur despise;
True from the first, and faithful to the end.
My days and nights one equal tenour keep.
Fast but to eat, and only wake to sleep;
Thus stealing along life I live incog,
A very plain and downright honest dog.

- William Hamilton, 18th century from On a Dog

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.

Aliens on Mt. Shasta

Sundown on Mt. Shasta

Driving south on Interstate 5 returning from Ashland, one can't help but notice how often there are odd cloud formations near the top of Mount Shasta. As the sun set one January afternoon, I was struck by the clouds shaped like rings of Saturn near the summit. My friend Sue thinks that the Lunarians live in the mountain, so probably these special clouds give them cover to land undetected.

The trip back to the Bay Area is visually interesting through the Siskiyou mountains, then you arrive in Redding. Sigh. Continuing south is rather dull, flat, many miles of straight uninspired Interstate with such exciting exits as "Proberta", "Balls Ferry" and the ever popular "Zamora". Often these exits do not provide any services, so one wonders why there is an exit at all. Once I reach the Hwy 505 cutoff back to I-80, the nonsense exits continue. My favorite paradox is Exit 17 to a destination called "Road 8".