The Lonely Travels of the Lone Rider pt.1

Posted on May 31, 2010 Sven

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Friday May 7: It was a pristine day in Los Angeles. Blue skies, temperature in the 70s, the perfect weather for a motorcycle ride. But where to? The beach? Big Bear? Ortega Highway? No, I had bigger plans. With a long overdue extended weekend, I set my sights for the one and only PCH (Pacific Coast Highway).

The 1, The only

I was on a mission: Get out and see the sights. With the only main objective to cross the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. How I would accomplish that objective was entirely up to me. No rush, take my time, explore the sights, and bask in it all.

Geared up and ready to go. Where, who knows...

With my black beauty, the Triumph Daytona 675, filled with a fresh tank and outfitted with my recently purchased Cortech saddlebags and tank pack, I set off for the first of only a few scheduled stops: the Santa Monica Pier. As the 10 West slimmed down to the CA1 North, you could feel the drop in temperature and the distinctive scent of the Pacific. I was beginning to realize that this trip was going to be something greater than just an extended ride. Exactly what? I wasn’t sure, but the hair standing on the back of my neck said that it was going to be something memorable.

After a quick pit stop at the Santa Monica Pier, I was back on the throttle winding up PCH. Malibu has always been a car show for me. The land of Bentleys, Porsches, and Maybachs; just another day in Malibu. Not today though. For ten or so miles, my British sportbike was accompanied by a rather hip young gentlemen from Oregon and his vintage drop-top Austin Healey. And to top it all, towards the last stretch a brand new Aston Martin DB9 joined in on the British reunion.

Malibu and Santa Barbara were enjoyable as always. It wasn’t until I left from Santa Barbara that I ran into my first bump in the road. The issue could have been averted, but I decided to overlook the idea of topping off my fuel tank after breaking for lunch….oops. Normally my “low fuel” light comes on around 145 miles, and I’ve stretched it as far as 155 miles. Nothing to worry about, except 155 came in the middle of no where and I had no idea when the next gas station was due. I soon found myself on this beautiful stretch of CA1 that wound through some green foothills towards the town of Lompoc. Imagine a coastal hillside with wide sweepers with a lone black sportbike screaming towards a quiet town…but it isn’t the bike that is making all the noise, it is me yelling at myself and coaxing my Daytona 675 to keep going, praying that I don’t sputter out in the middle of nowhere.

I managed to make it to Lompoc free of incident. I rolled into the first gas station and looked in the tank. Bone dry. I was probably riding on fumes. “Never again.” I told myself. Lompoc itself was a cozy military town nestled along Vandenberg AFB.

The coastal views of PCH vanished temporarily as I had to bypass Vandenberg AFB. I actually enjoyed the break in scenery; no more million dollar seaside mansions that I’m not living in. Soon the land and the roads flattened out as I approached the farms of Santa Maria, so I took it upon myself to really give the Daytona 675 a try. After waiting at a deserted 4-way stop, I had at least 3/4 of a mile stretch all to myself. I cranked down on the throttle and screamed down the roadway, shifting at 13,000 RPMs, peaking at 134 mph before deciding to let up. I’ve gone plenty of fast in my life, but for me to physically be in control of a 134 mph rocket puts a smile on my face every time I revisit that memory. And to top it all off, I know it goes faster.

Around 120 I started screaming like a lil girl

The remainder of the day went uneventful, except for the unrelenting wind. The dinner hour crept in, and I felt it would be a perfect time to call it a day. Now Bren and Mrs. Bren told me that I am not allowed to talk of the magical place where I stayed at for fear that more people may know of it and ruin its specialness and exclusivity. But what I will say is that this lil slice of Heaven is somewhere between San Simeon and San Luis Obispo, and if you happen upon it you will understand why it is a best kept secret.

Day 1 was a success. I couldn’t ask for a better ride. And as I sat at the cliff side beach watching the sun set, I could only ponder as to what was laying ahead. Would I find what I was looking for in San Francisco? Or would it be elsewhere? I knew I wanted to conquer the Golden Gate Bridge, but I wasn’t sure if it was going to be sufficient. I had this strange taste for more. I put the idea on the back burner. I could get to it later, since that was the idea: no commitments, go with the flow.