I wasn’t in the mood. Having used the coast as my motoring playground these past years, it was all a bit too familiar for the sense of adventure I wanted. My sights were set toward the unseen corners of the Pacific Northwest, but getting there necessitated either of two parts of a dilemma: endure the heavy heat of the Central Valley or reluctantly retread California’s western edge.

In truth, it wasn’t a difficult decision, made easier when my good friend Brian, a resident of the Central Valley, dropped out of the tour. I wanted to make this year’s venture as different from last year’s as possible and Brian was a part of that. When he wasn’t a part of it, my insistence on a new trail waned. The coast it is, again. At least I wouldn’t sweat in my leathers.

July 19, 2010

An unknown quantity of miles separated the morning me from my unknown destination. No reservations this year, rather a sleeping bag and a tent. Four bungees, a pair of side bags and a heavy squint turned the Ninja 250 into a convincing miniature of a touring bike, a 7:10 scale approximation of something more sensible folk employ for 2,500 mile journeys. Charlie and Ewan wouldn’t dare.

San Francisco vanished behind me, swallowed by the lazy fog monster that annually makes my home its home during summer months. The creature’s tendrils stretched further north than I’d hoped, but lunch in Tomales came with the company of sun and clear skies.

More miles, more cold, and more too-familiar towns. Bodega Bay? I’m not impressed anymore. Jenner and Stewart’s Point? Wake me up in Bragg, if I can make it. I didn’t. Well south of Fort Bragg, mental fatigue tugged me off course and into a miserable cafe in a town with the miserable name of Gualala.

I’d been wrong all day, a truth elucidated by a simple cup of coffee. Only I was miserable.

I hit the road with a renewed enthusiasm, a warming urge to ride that evaporated the thoughts of an early day’s retirement clouding my mind.

Einstein proved his genius when he discovered that time and space are relative, but it’s got nothing to do with velocity and everything to do with a stimulated mind. The hours before Gualala were long, but post a mug of inspired Sumatra, miles compressed into a black hole behind the front tire of my motorcycle at an impossible rate without diminishing my cognitive appreciation of the world around me. Manchester Beach, the Point Arena lighthouse, Mendocino and Fort Bragg were history before they were news, but I perceived the overcast, humbling lot.

As I neared the terminus of Highway 1, memories surfaced of last year’s hurried race against the setting sun across the most perfect stretch of road I’d ever found. The twenty miles between the Pacific and Leggett twist and curl as if Highway 1 is writhing in its death throes, aware of its imminent demise and determined to make a stink about it. The road’s as good as I remembered, perhaps better without the pressure of being behind a schedule. And per the laws discovered by the physicist with terrible hair and perverted by a yours truly, it was over in an instant.

Leggett was a road sign a year ago, but I was curious if there was more. A drive-through redwood tree yonder? Who could resist. More north on 101, Fortuna signaled the end of my coastal traipse. I wasted daylight with dinner in Eureka and sought a suitable spot for the tent before the sun had fully dipped under the sky. Splattered midge flies obscured my visor faster than I could scrub ‘em off and, as I turned east onto Highway 36, the last reminders of light faded behind a dense canopy of green.

Not that I could see any green, or any color other than the faint yellow glow of my high beam. The scramble for a bed I’d hoped to avoid by forsaking a schedule had taken me again. Stopped at a volunteer firehouse to ask permission to set up a tent and be off early, but no one was around. Deeper into the woods. Finally, a campsite but a sign outside insisted it was full. I cruised quietly through the grounds, looking for secluded hole where maybe I’d get away with crashing for the night, but ran into a ranger who reluctantly gave me a riverside picnic area for the night. Under the headlight of the bike, I erected my modest quarters and slept to sounds of swishing streams and redneck camper romantic chit-chatter.

I had a week of industry trade show in Los Angeles, but rather than board a plane with my coworkers and be south in an hour I seized the chance to ride a motorcycle for a day there, a day back. Work is impatient and left little time for the run down to L.A. so I swallowed the miles in one big gulp. The freeway capability of the Ninja 250 is frequently doubted, but I know better. Let this be the final word: Freeway is no concern for the 250, not even at 75 mph with drag-inducing side bags. I, however, am not quite as unbreakable.

June 13, 2010

A day of motorcycling starts with boundless optimism. Hurtling into the garlicky, warm breath of the Santa Clara Valley, I was still on fresh knees and a high of hope. “Eight hours, just me and my bike–nowhere I’d rather be.” But my enthusiasm eventually succumbed to the draining batter of air breaking over the wind screen and a grease-bomb fast food lunch in Pismo Beach didn’t help.

A thick summer fog turned my armored jacket into a swamp cooler and my attention was cat napping with disturbing regularity. A familiar roadside rest stop gave me precious downtime to relax my mind and rededicate my concentration; just a couple of minutes can have an amazing effect.

I lost track of mileage signs and didn’t know how close I was to Santa Barbara until traffic backed up, the surefire sign SLO county is behind me. As capable as it is at freeway speed, the Ninja 250 is even better splitting lanes. Other riders split ahead, and as I inevitably caught ‘em up–I cut my teeth commuting San Francisco–even half-helmeted Harley types politely pulled aside to wave me on.

Tight space. Tighter. Clear. Good. A hole! Merging? Clear. Tight space. Good. Tighter. Hole! Merging? Clear. Two hours splitting later, I parked up the bike in a downtown Los Angeles hotel garage for the week.

June 18, 2010

The work days were spent on foot, though I did find saddle time with a CR250 gussied up with chainsaws and blood splatters (zombie blood, of course). Every day without the 250 got me closer to it again. Trade show concluded and I rode out of L.A. in the afterglow of the previous night’s NBA Finals riot.

Home is more patient than business, so the return trip to San Francisco didn’t demand as strict a schedule as the ride down. In planning other rides to Southern California, I’ve been directed to Highway 33 but never had the time to try it. Until now.

Desolate, pristine, wide and beautifully curvy. Highway 33 carves deliciously smooth turns through the Los Padres National Forest, a terrain that looks typically SoCal with tall brush and dry tan soil harshly lit by direct, overhead sunlight. A 600cc super sport could really stretch its legs back here, but my little Ninja gave me plenty of punch. Fast corners let me rarely dip below 60 mph except to dodge the occasional blue belly lizard scurrying across the heat-soaked pavement.

The fun didn’t last forever. Highway 33 eventually turns arrow-straight, and my thoughts soon wandered in the direction of lunch. I pegged San Luis Obispo for a good lunch destination but underestimated the distance between the top of 33 and the 101 freeway. As dull as the last stretches of 33 may be, the 60 miles of Highway 166 back to the coast are worse. Stuck behind RVs through mountain passes is torturous, especially on an empty stomach.

By the time SLO came into view, I was more than eager to pull off the freeway and partake in a local institution by grubbing at Margie’s Diner. Stuffed myself with hamburger and avocado, the bike with fuel, and rejoined US 101 for another two million engine revolutions back to San Francisco.

The emotional comfort of lounging on the couch with my fiancée and our cat, but at 60 mph along the Olympic Highway through the kinds of greens and blues television can’t produce. God I miss it. I’m going back.

I knew last year as soon as I’d returned to San Francisco that I needed to make the trip again, been thinking of another week on two wheels even since. But I’m not looking for a carbon-copy repeat in a vain attempt to relive a past experience. This year’s plan calls for a different route through Oregon and, more notably, the company of a childhood friend.

The same friend I escorted to Santa Cruz last July is on board with my second venture north. Four days through California and Oregon to Seattle, one day of rest and another three days back down the coast to San Francisco; that’s the plan, for now. I’ve done a fair bit of daydream drooling over Google Maps in anticipation for the trip, and come up with this preliminary set of routes.

Day 1 | Cameron Park to Mount Shasta

I’ve agreed to kick off the trip from Brian’s home just east of Sacramento. The benefit of this starting point is an easy shot to Highway 49, which was a bad word when I was growing up and windy back roads meant car-sick kids, but as a motorcycling adult now looks like joyous tarmac. The downside is a whole lot of heat. Hopefully things will cool down by the time we find a camp site near the base of Mount Shasta.

Day 2 | Mount Shasta to Crater Lake

From Shasta, Highway 97 could take us to Crater Lake with hours of daylight to spare, but when I originally routed that way the map looked a bit depressing and in need of more adventure. Enter northeast California and Goose Lake. Probably also hot. I’ve wanted to visit Crater Lake since before last year’s trip and am elated to have worked it into the schedule this go-round.

Day 3 | Crater Lake to Mount Hood

This is the least-purposeful leg of the trip; having no other Oregon target in mind, I aimed only for a fun route that would set us up to circle Mount Ranier on the final stretch. Mount Hood came recommended by folks more familiar with the area, and the Columbus River Gorge promises stunning scenery.

Day 4 | Mount Hood to Seattle

I almost missed this route opportunity because Google Maps doesn’t render Highway 410 unless zoomed in pretty close. The Washington state byway traces the eastern base of Mount Rainier. On a clear day in Seattle (rare), Mount Rainer dominates the skyline from the southeast. It’s properly, stunningly massive, looming with the flattening imminence of a full moon low on the horizon. I won’t need clear skies to spot the mountain from WA-410, but I’m still hoping for them.

It’s a fairly ambitious itinerary, but I’ve got faith that Brian can hang. And I hope he finds the comfort and love of home on the open road. It’s a liberating state of mind.

Another interstate conquest will have to wait until later this year, but in the meantime I’ve got to maintain my love affair with motorcycles–not that it’s difficult. In recent weeks, I’ve found fascination in a game of Bay Area photo tagging. The premise: One guy takes a photo of his bike in front of a notable landmark or otherwise memorable spot and challenges other motorcyclists to match the photograph with their own bikes. The “winner,” as it were, then gets to pick the next photo tag location, urging the game’s players to scan their brains for memories or use Google Maps to piece together clues that lead to newly-discovered locales, some more inspiring than others.

I watched carefully as the game unfolded for the first couple of weeks, unable to identify any of the target locations. Clearly, I’ve a lot more adventuring to do. But eventually, one player got lazy and set the next location at a yogurt shop, with enough information in his photograph for me to Google its whereabouts. I figured it out around midnight, and as the target was a mere two miles from my apartment I geared up and rode the DR out to snap the winning picture.

I wasn’t about to set up another easy shot for the game. The next morning, I took a friend out to Mines Road in Livermore, and while we enjoyed pulled-pork sandwiches at The Junction I spotted the next photo tag: a welcoming metal sculpture-thing inconspicuously laid up against the outside wall of the restaurant. I lined up the photograph, snapped it, and later uploaded the shot to puzzle other riders.

It didn’t take long for other players to identify the location, and one dedicated rider traversed Mount Hamilton at night–by no means a casual endeavor–to match the photo.

A later challenge photograph pictured a bike somewhere high, overlooking the bay and San Francisco’s downtown buildings. I didn’t recognize the location, but started scouring Google Maps to figure it out anyway. With a view of the northern face of the city, the western side of the Bay Bridge and some lower hills, the photograph must have been taken from northwest of San Francisco, across the Golden Gate, somewhere in Marin. I checked the roads of Sausalito, guessing maybe the photo tag was on a hill overlooking Angel Island for the view of the city. Nothing Google gave me matched. I looked further northwest, using Google’s topographic maps to find the highest location in the area, and by chance spotted a viewing point at the top of Mount Tamalpais. Gotta be it.

With a four-day business trip to New York in my near future, I had to match the Mount Tam photo quick. No time for the weekend, an after-work evening would have to do. And so as fast as I could after leaving the office, I grabbed my camera and headed north across the bridge, snaked onto the better-than-remembered Panoramic Highway, and curled up the narrow mountain road that leads to the breath-taking view of the North Bay.

I got the shot, just minutes before the sun set (I took a second photo another mile up the mountain with much less light just moments later), which meant I enjoyed the descent back into San Francisco in darkness. I had to take the next photo tag picture on the way home, since I was flying out in the morning, and so got a bit lazy myself. But with a lack of light, a dying camera battery and no tripod, the lazy shot ended up an interesting challenge. Not that it took the tenacious Bay Area photo tag players long to figure it out.

Fedor Emelianenko couldn’t have knocked the grin off my face. Two months away from a bike is enough to make it feel freshly foreign again. My awkwardness on the stilted dual sport motorcycle, the still-messy roads from the previous day’s storm, and the mechanic’s advice to take it easy on the practically-new motor limited the ride to a sane pace. An utter joy, but not quite fully satisfying.

A dual sport motorcycle demands more than damp highways, so this morning I went out again, intent to reacquaint myself with the roads I couldn’t fully enjoy on the Ninja. First up, Tunitas Creek Road.

I’d only ridden Tunitas Creek once before–aboard the mighty 250–and remembered it for its darkly-covered, one-lane-narrow and lumpy asphalt. Not the best of conditions for budget sport bike suspension and weighted wrists, but just the sort of stuff that inspired me to buy the DR late last year. Attacking Tunitas with miles of fork travel and sit-up-and-beg posture was nothing short of a revelation. The event transformed Tunitas Creek from quirky novelty to one of my absolute favorite stretches of road, a wild blast of rapid gear changes, sharp bends, blind corners, waving bicyclists, and fistfuls of throttle.

I got carried away reveling in my dual sport’s strengths and for a second forgot its biggest weakness. Compared with the Ninja 250, the DR has crap for brakes. When Tunitas abruptly dumped me onto Skyline, I squeezed hard, locked the rear over a thin layer of mud, fish tailed and gave a crowd of bicyclists something to giggle at. But hey, no foot down!

After an obligatory lunch stop at Alice’s and an hour spent ogling the turnout’s motorcycle herd, I made for Alpine Road to the south. Alpine is less goaty than Tunitas Creek, but it’s still a place where the DR shines. Despite a painted divider line, Alpine is too narrow for two cars side-by-side. It’s surface is smooth in comparison to Tunitas’s whoops, but it’s a coarse pavement that falls across steep, tight hills. It’s enough to keep away most all automobiles, which is likely why the secluded area sees so much bicycle traffic.

Semi-goat trails are great, but it wouldn’t be a real dual sport outing without a bit of dirt. On the advice of one of this blog’s readers, I charged toward Reservoir Road in Pescadero. It’s a legit road on the map, with road signs and mailing addresses, but it’s unpaved. And after last week’s torrential storm, Reservoir Road is vaguely muddy. My first jaunt over a dirt path on the DR was uneventful, but satisfying. I wanted to dip into the throttle, throw a roost and stick my leg out while powering through turns, but I wasn’t prepared to be muddy or fall off the bike and both would’ve surely happened. The pleasure of Reservoir lasted all of five minutes, but at least I can say I’ve taken the bike off road. Sort of. I’ve got spattered boots to prove it.

A visit to Pescadero would be wasted without a taste of Stage Road. And like everything I’d done today, Stage is best savored with the Suzuki DR. Beautiful as always (though the skeleton is gone), and the perfect end to a dual sport loop I’ll no doubt repeat in the future.

My office’s last three-day weekend was rained out, completely. Three free days, ruined by a soggy sky. I filed my complaint to no one, but someone must have listened. We got another long weekend for Presidents Day, this time without the wet stuff. With an entire Monday to waste, a couple coworkers and I boarded our sport bikes and headed north for the phenomenal roads and sights of Marin and Sonoma counties.

Tracing a route nearly identical to what I ran with the old men in Marin, I had to constantly reference hand-scrawled directions, paper stretched over my Ninja’s gas tank, to anticipate turns onto the next valley roads. Lucas Valley Road, Nicassio Valley Road, Hicks Valley, Chileno Valley, and finally Coleman Valley Road, each offering unique challenges–damp corners, goaty asphalt, cattle grates, blind crests, and/or powdery fog–and endlessly stunning scenery, a surplus of green draped over rolling hills where cows moo.

After brunchfast in Occidental, we punched through a wall of sagging cloud to reach the coast. Parked up the bikes for a bit and threw stones at much bigger stones in the sea while shooting the shit, talking about other favorite getaways and how we might be able to shoehorn motorcycles into them.

It’d been a while since I last binged on CA-1, so I opted to guide the pack straight down the coast to return to San Francisco, rather than cutting inland for less-traveled roads. The coastal line brought the awesome sights I remembered from last year, but also the tediously slow traffic lines that plague Highway 1 during summer months. But it’s February, I objected inside my helmet. Try as my frustration might to overwhelm me, nothing could spoil the day.

I returned home more than seven hours after I’d left in the morning, after a ride nearly as long as the work day George Washington helped me skip. Here’s to our Presidents past.

The high school issue Jansport was guilty of two major sins: It offered almost no protection against rain, and, worse, it tortured my shoulders on long rides when heavily loaded. For its replacement to satisfy me, it’d need to…

• …support itself with more than shoulder straps
  
• …offer some sort of water resistance
  
• …sport a generous carrying capacity

I looked at a lot of bags, including this Overboard Waterproof Backpack. The bag satisfies all of my requirements, but I wasn’t willing to take a chance on a backpack I couldn’t first handle in a store. I was also aware of Ogio’s No Drag Backpack but doubted the carrying capacity and usability of such an odd, rigid shape. It struck me as gimmicky.

When I first spotted the No Drag in a Washington moto shop, I was surprised and impressed by the expanse of its interior. I liked the rubberized outer shell and the lack of exposed zippers. The bag’s only openings are on the side that faces the rider’s back, which keeps the most porous bits of the bag (the zippers) away from rain and thieving hands. Perhaps best of all, the No Drag hangs on with both a sternum strap and waist strap in addition to typical shoulder gear.

With 1,000 miles yet between home and me and my overweight backpack, the No Drag was a dream. “It will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine.” After completing the Seattle trip, I promptly ordered the Ogio from New Enough.

I’ve since used the No Drag for more than 5,000 miles and determined that it is the ideal bag for motorcycling…probably. It’s not perfect. The sternum and waist straps that add support to the bag and relieve shoulder pressure also add complexity to putting the bag on and taking it off. Riding–or even walking–with the waist strap disconnected leaves dangling buckles that slap into surrounding objects. On the bike, there’s no real issue with buckling in, but when I’m off and walking between shops, the extra strapping can make a chore of getting in and out of the bag for my wallet and storing things like delicious deli sandwiches.

The protected zippers and openings don’t help shopping matters as it’s almost impossible to get into the bag without setting it down. A typical backpack can easily swing around the shoulder and offer over-the-belly access to its contents, but the same shoulder swing with the No Drag keeps the zippers hidden between the bag and my chest. For this reason, I’ve had to stop storing my wallet in the backpack.

And while the bag consumes a solid 21 liters of shoes and camera equipment, utilizing all of the space isn’t always possible with the sloping shape of the bag. As well, it’s a tall bag, tapered top to tapered bottom. This makes it good for stashing a dozen long stem roses (tested, approved) but also necessitates some fitting to keep it from rubbing against the back of my helmet without then butting into the tail of the bike. I got it sorted for my 5′ 10″ body, but riders with shorter torsos may have issues.

And so the Ogio No Drag is an imperfect backpack, but is also the best option for motorcycling that I’ve found. The very features that benefit the riding experience inconvenience the rider away from the bike, but for me they’re worth the trouble. If I could change it, I’d widen the sternum strap, giving it a pocket large enough to hold a wallet and bridge toll money, and I’d give the bag an option for storing the waist strap, as the support (and hassle) isn’t necessary for twenty-minute commutes and errands.

Despite some incidental shortcomings, the bag has fully satisfied my three original criteria. It’s comfortable all day, it hasn’t yet been breached by rain and it carries my laptop, shoes, nighttime visor and more. I wouldn’t trade it for another bag. Unless Ogio uses my suggestions to improve the next model.

I’ve a bit of a love-hate relationship with sleep; I love to stay in bed, but I hate that sleep is such a waste of time. Leonardo da Vinci devised a torturous sleep pattern to avoid the wastefulness of unconscious nights, whereby he slept in ten minute bursts for a total of just two hours per day. Obviously, that’s insane and ill-conceived, but I’ve always had a lot of respect for people that can sleep less and wake up early and active. Usually it’s old people with such talents.

I’m not old yet, so I have to try hard to make use of the morning. In recent months, a weekend breakfast ride with coworkers has motivated me out of bed. The ride’s MO in a nutshell: Meet up at an undisclosed spot by 8:00 AM, ride awesome roads to breakfast, warm up with coffee, get home by noon. Before this recent initiative, I never even started my joyrides until noon, a fact that underscores my new ambition.

The season’s weather has lately slowed my early bird metamorphosis, but with an optimistic weather forecast for this weekend, I’m aiming to resume progress. Perhaps I can innervate my limp, sleepy mind with photos from our past rides.

In October, I started wrangling together a group of coworkers for Sunday morning rides every week. We’ve had some fantastic days, but I get the feeling that, at least until after football season, it’s going to be harder and harder to motivate the pack to wake up at dawn for a casual back road tear to breakfast and coffee.

One rider has already passed on multiple invites on account of the early hours and squeezing cold, but I wrote him off as a whiner. When this week’s group completely dissolved into got other plans, I resigned to a solo day in the mountains. It’s not raining, it’s not that cold, why wouldn’t I ride? It’s not like it’s…

…Except it is December.

Roaring down the 280 freeway just before noon today, I didn’t consider the season. Pulling onto empty side roads, I didn’t connect the absence of outdoor recreators with the chilling air. And when I crossed paths with a pack of twenty sport bikes exiting the hills as I entered, I didn’t know they were running from rain.

But the damp, empty lots at Alice’s and STP cracked my dense denial. A week ago, the popular moto stop was hopping with life. In the nearly two years I’ve been pilgrimaging to Alice’s, I’ve never been the only bike around before today. I grabbed a coffee to warm my hands and copped a seat on the curb, waiting for the motorcycle symphony to fill the valley with spine-tingling combustion noises.

The orchestra never materialized, so I turned home. Deliberating inside my helmet on the relaxed cruise up Highway 1, I entertained the possibility that the season for carefree, recreational riding has passed. Not that it’ll stop me, just weaken my insistence that friends come with. I’ll eagerly ride just for fun year-round, so long as it doesn’t rain.

It started raining. Denial crushed. Go home, summer is over.

This weekend, I picked up a 1992 Suzuki DR350S, an eighteen-year-old dual sport that’s seen just two owners before me and fewer than 5,000 miles. For a bike of legal age, it’s in incredibly good nick, right down to the wildy ’90s, pink and purple, screamin’ decals. With a dual sport in my stable, new, unpaved roads are opened to me. Though before I dabble in dirt, I wanted to get personal with the DR by taking it on some of my favorite (asphalt) roads.

On the morning after buying the bike, I rode down Skyline to Alice’s. A bike with this much retro character demands attention, and it got a few looks from other riders making the obligatory stop in the mountains. A couple guys were stunned by the low price I paid for the bike, and also surprised when I extended the kick start lever to fire it up and take off. “I’m new to this,” I warned, preparing onlookers for the inevitable series of failed kicks. “Hell everyone’s new to it, they don’t make ‘em anymore!” responded the rider of a newer GSX650F.

After Alice’s, I headed for Stage Road, the beautiful but bumpy road I first explored last December. It’s a fantastic bit of tarmac, tight and twisty, but it’s not a smooth surface. On my Ninja, riding Stage requires a lot of standing on pegs to let my legs absorb the jolts my butt prefers not. It’s exactly the sort of road that made me want a dual sport or supermoto in the first place, so I was anxious to see how the DR might change the experience.

My ride on the DR wasn’t as fast as previous tears on the 250, largely due to inexperience on the bike as well as comparatively stiff, wooden brakes. But what the DR lacks in quick responses, it makes up with compliant suspension that dulls the ripples of Stage’s pavement for a significantly more comfortable ride. Reaching the end of Stage on the Ninja feels like an accomplishment, but the DR wanted more.

More will have to wait. The Suzook is an exciting addition to my motorcycling options, but a couple days on the bike gave me a new appreciation for the Ninja 250. The quality of the DR’s build is unimpeachable, but the Ninja is such a polished, practical package in comparison. The kick start on the DR is novel, but after a couple dozen starts in 24 hours my right leg kills. At speed, my Kawasaki is immeasurably more solid and confident. Every control, from turn signals to steering, is lighter, more effortless on the Ninja. And the two-gallon tank on the dual sport reminds me–every 60-80 miles–that the Ninja’s 150-mile-plus tank range makes the bike infinitely usable.

But it won’t be long before I start really appreciating the DR’s strengths. I just need to find some good dirt trails…