The PCH - Chapter 3

Friday July 9, 2004 - 12:00 p.m.

The distance from Surprise, Arizona (a suburb of Phoenix) to Santa Monica, California is 384 miles (according to the Man). That is six hours and twenty-six minutes of riding time (also according to the Man). We completed this leg of the trip with only two stops - (Blythe, CA and Indio, CA). Neither stop lasted longer than it took to fill up the tank, empty the bladder and consume a bottle of convenience store water. By this point, I can no longer feel my ass. I believe I prefer it this way.

A good friend of mine lives in Santa Monica and works in Century City. The Pink Flamingos have a scheduled lunch appointment with her and another friend of mine, her boss. They both work for a law firm and they want to take the entire motorcycle club out for lunch. Our scheduled time of arrival was supposed to be noon. At noon, we are sitting in traffic somewhere in the greater Los Angelese metropolitan area. It is approximately 85 degrees, we are hungry, tired, sore and barely moving. Even this was bearable until the canary we had brought with us fell off its perch and died due to the excessive levels of carbon monoxide. This brought about yet another good news/bad news situation. The good news was that we were able to dispense with the awkward bird cage we had been packing - the bad news is that we were in imminent danger of death. Yes, this trip was filled with peril.

I love LA.

After running the LA gauntlet, we finally made it to Caroline's office in Centry City, parked FLMNG1 in the dark recesses of the basement of the parking garage and made our way upwards into the highrise office tower...dressed like bikers. It was an interesting and glamorous look for the Los Angelonians to soak in.

After a quick tour of the firm, we headed out to a local restaurant. The Pink Flamingos stuck out like pink flamingos in a restaurant. We were decked in leather clothing and bandanas sitting among the lawyers and LA businessmen.

Ordinarily, this is the enviornment that I live in. I thrive here. I make a living here. But in this costume and to these people, I was a foreign object lodged in their well-dressed throats. People stared - casually, but I could sense their eyes on us. When I would look back at them, their heads and eyes would quickly dart away.

Initially, I felt uncomfortable. I hate to be underdressed. But the realization soon set in that, to these people, I was the character that I appeared to be. To these people, I could be what they saw; I could play this character. At this moment, I felt like a rebel and an outsider; I became a rebel and an outsider. It felt good. It felt strange. It was liberating to be freed from my identity as a father, a lawyer and a responsible member of society. At this moment, I had become a member of a motorcycle club.

The Pink Flamingos settled in and ate lunch in this mid-scale outdoor patio restaurant among the successful businesmen...and then we hit the road.

The plan was to take a picture in front of the Santa Monica pier. Plans don't always work out. I-10 dead-ends right near the pier, but by the time we hit the end of the road, we had our fill of LA traffic. As I took the exit off the end of I-10, I looked over my left shoulder in time to at least catch a glimpse of the famous sign in front of the Santa Monica pier. The I-10 exit then poured us out onto the Pacific Coast Highway and FLMNG1 met the Pacific Ocean for the very first time.

It was only about 3:00 p.m. when we hit the coast and we still wanted to put some distance between us and Phoenix, yet it was too beatuiful not to stop once in a while. The first picture above was from our first stop - somewhere northwest of Malibu, California. The California coast north of Los Angeles is positively breathtaking.

The Pacific Coast Highway is, in my opinion, the last great American highway. Highly touted Route 66 is full of nostalgia, but it has be chopped up into some many pieces it is virtually unnavigable. The PCH remains intact. Our tires are in contact with this most magnificent stretch of road and it is exhilirating. Goosebumps spring forth. For the first time in the ride, but not the last, I find myself saying to myself that this is the most beautiful place I have ever seen in my entire life.

Santa Barbara is a stop along our route. We spend a little bit of time hugging the ocean and taking a few pictures in a seaside park, but, unfortunately, we can't linger in Santa Barbara for long. We are losing daylight and need to make just a little more distance before we stop. The greater Pismo Beach metropolitan area is our goal and it is still another 90 miles away.

After Santa Barbara, there is a point where you come to a crossroads - you can either go to Lompoc and maintain the tour along Highway 1 or you can take Highway 101 and cut more inland through the Buellton/Solvang region. We opted for the latter based mostly on our desire to reconnect with the Pacific as soon as possible in the Pismo Beach area.

We blew by Buellton and Solvang, stopping only when it was a necessity. Soon we were in Arroyo Grande (just outside of Pismo Beach) and we had stumbled onto an acceptable motel. Dumpy but practical, home for the first night was going to be an Econo Lodge. After quickly detaching and then dumping our bags in the room, we headed out for food. We found a great seafood restaurant in Pismo where we sat by a window and looked out over the darkening ocean while we dined on hot clam chowder, sourdough bread and cold beer.

This is what I came here for. Day one finally ends after traveling over 555 miles and I know this is the beginning of something amazing.