Day 29 Coasting

Kicked out of the motel at 11, Karl had left earlier and the sun was out. Not yet ready for the day I passed up trophy photographs of the bike in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, no doubt I’ll regret that one day, probably many days. On the bay I came across a seaplane tours company and, like the fool that I am also declined with the intent of getting some significant intercourse between the tyres and highway 1.

A glorious road with a justified reputation. The recent rain had displaced gravel and small rocks from the slopes down onto the apex of the shoreward curves and the four wheelers (four wheels good two wheels bad) had arranged it neatly into hazardous piles in my path.

The meandering road, my foggy head and the late departure meant that this was not going to be a big mileage day. Scenic view points provided rest for my aching hips and inspiration for my seafaring fantasies.

You may know that the distance to the horizon in nautical miles can be calculated by finding the square root of your height above sea level in feet. A 9′ tall millennial (they all are) standing with his toes in the water can see a horizon 3 nautical miles away. Put him on top of a 160′ post and he can see for 13 nautical miles. I didn’t know that, I looked it up on wikipedia along with the conversion from nautical miles to miles (1 nautical to 1.151 firmament). I could go on about miles being a thousand roman paces (counting the left foot only) or about how a second (1/60 of a degree) of change in latitude or longitude equates to a nautical mile on the surface of the ocean, but I can tell that your eyes are closing and a yawn is forming.

Much of the highway has double lines down the middle and overtaking is achieved by the good grace of the slower vehicle using a ‘pull off area’ to get out of the way. Parking in these is prohibited but because of the remoteness of the area and the sparse nature of the cell coverage there are some emergency call boxes. I stopped at the one shown above for a joke photo and, rat-a-tat-a-rat-a, the joke was on me as she toyed with my emotions. I’d parked at the most level and lowest part of the pull-in and the loose gravel made it precarious to waddle her backwards, I tried once more in desperation and she caught, perhaps someone’s God had smiled on me, perhaps the motor was marginal with less than a fully charged battery and burbling along at low revs, as I had been, wasn’t replenishing it. I span her up for ten miles or so to Gualala where I booked into the Seacliff Motel (with hotel prices) and put the battery on charge, it didn’t need it so I’ll work on the connectors again tomorrow, and walked to my first Saloon (also a hotel and restaurant and without swinging doors).

I talked with Katie who was a big fan of air cooled big twin BMW motorcycles, she’d had many her favourite being the R90, and recommended a bike shop Zen House further up the road where they like the classics. I have the book (Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance) in my luggage and haven’t re-read a word on this trip, no time. After a couple of very pleasant pints I picked up a pizza ‘to go’ from the shop next door and a beer from the gas station and went to wash and eat and prepare for an early start. The enormity of getting the bike back to NYC is hanging over me, I need to make more plans.