Desert to Coast
My brother Joel and I had both been seeing YouTube videos of riders having terrific times along the California coast.
I had such a ride in mind since Shannon and I drove to some of her homelands around San Luis Obispo and I saw the many quiet and beautiful seaside roads there. A ride to the central coast needs more time than we have, at least at the pace we prefer. So instead we’ve decided to ride the northern coast.
“My motorcycle is dripping oil,” I say to Joel. We’ve pulled off in Caldwell for a first gas-up before we head across the Oregon desert.
“It might just be cast-off,” I add, “but I’ve never seen it drip that much.”
I decide to play it safe and have it checked. I don’t want to bring worries with me for an entire week. A few minutes later we pull up to the nearest service location on Apple Maps.
“Well that was stupid,” Rod tells me when I acknowledge I put some gear oil on the chain earlier.
“I wiped it down,” I insist but that doesn’t stop the scolding. It’s been a long time since I was reprimanded like this. Somehow it seems charming. I’m happy to confess my follies.
Joel takes the cue and keeps his own bike questions to himself.
After Rod confirms there’s no issue with the motorcycle, we talk about our ride and he brings us around his shop and property, showing us the 125 or so classic motorcycles he has, many in disrepair and quite a few that he’s restored to perfection. We listen for some forty minutes to stories of his races and time on Kawasaki’s “team green.”
It ends up being a delightful way to start the ride, a happy circumstance.
“I’ll be sure to recommend you,” I say gratefully as we mount up to leave.
“Please don’t,” Rod answers.
Cruise control and headphones are the small mercies that carry us along roads that remain linear to Oregon’s farthest, empty horizons.
What I first take to be dust lifted mountain-high by an awaiting weather front seems instead as we draw nearer to be mist rising from the alkali Lake Abert. I’d like to pull off for a closer look but we’re already running behind for our Medford meet-up with our brother Jeremy.
I don’t even know where we are. I missed a turn earlier and the map app, rather than just send me back to the route I’d planned, created a whole new route. Exciting. And now it’s getting chilly: heated grips on.
Eleven hours (ugh) after leaving Boise, Joel and I rendezvoused with our ever ebullient brother Jeremy at the City Center Motel.
I find night riding to be a thrill, a silent flight through interstellar space. But the hazards are palpable. A truck ahead of us in the dark last night hit a small bear. It was laid on its back, paws up, in the middle of the road. At another spot I had to brake pretty hard for a deer.
But we made it safely, slept well, and soon Jeremy has the rental motorcycle set up for the trip. After a mellow coffee shop breakfast, we head down beautiful mountain Highway 238 over to 199, where we fly between massive redwoods, then down the coast to idyllic little Trinidad.
There’s a little hike we might have done here but winds are gusting and other destinations beckon. We content ourselves with a few moments of wordless wonder.
We stop along Highway 101 at the ineluctable, tree-high Bunyan and bull, expecting wonders. A map shows us rope courses, a gondola and other amusements hidden in the trees behind. It could be fun with our families but we decide it’s not the thing for three curmudgeons.
“Is it still $15 per vehicle if we’re on motorcycles?” I ask the lady in the little booth. I already know the answer since she can plainly see we’re on motorcycles. But I feel like making a mild point.
“It is,” she answers.
“Alright.”
Getting our picture in a drive-through redwood isn’t optional.
We stop at one of the many hiking trails in the Redwood Park to spend some time on foot among these giants.
The basic figure-eight route we’re following was established last Fall by the Backcountry Discovery Routes (BDR) organization. We initially planned to camp along the way, as usual, but that got trickier with Jeremy flying in to rent a motorcycle.
Instead, we’re going in style this time, starting at the inn BDR suggests in Ferndale. But don’t tell the ladies.
“I’m really glad your only remaining room is so very pink,” I say to the owner, Jason. (I’m not sure he realizes I’m joking.)
We aren’t keen to share a bed so I’d called ahead to see if the room could accommodate three. I was told mats are available but after a closer look, Jeremy decides an extra room is worth it. There’s only one left and it’s the pinkest room I’ve ever seen.
Jeremy has been refining his whiskey palette of late which is how we find ourselves downstairs from our room in the lovely period bar, facing a flight of his choices.
“I haven’t been drinking much lately,” I confide and Joel echoes while Jeremy is across the room, orchestrating our likely demise.
by Jason Abbott