The PCH - Chapter 6

Saturday July 10, 2004
Monterey, CA to The Golden Gate Bridge

With bellies full of crab and shrimp and bits of sourdough sponges sopped with creamy cheese sauce, the motorcycles strain under the added weight of the load of our lunch. It is apparent, by the grins on our faces, that we don't even care that we have lost several miles per hour or that we have seriously impaired our aerodynamics by bloating our bellies into giant wind-blocking spheres. When you are this close to heaven, nothing can detract from the spellbinding glory that comes along with the open road, the sea and a satisfied gut. Even the fact that we are now leaving Monterey does not intrude on the mood.

The entire Pink Flamingos Motorcycle Club is well aware of what is on our horizon. By the fastest route, the Man shows the distance from Monterey, California to San Francisco, California as 113 miles (181.855 Canadian). We aren't taking the fastest or the shortest route; we are going to continue to hug the coast.

Sometimes too much of a good thing can get tiresome. Have you ever ordered something that was so rich and delicious that you just couldn't stop eating it - and then you went too far and grew tired of the taste. Now that dish is ruined for you forever. Once you have surpassed the limits of consumption, even with respect to the richest, most delicious delicacy, it is never the same experience to your palate again. This never happens on this road. I can't get enough of this open road, the rocky shore and the wide blue horizon. I am in gluttonous bliss; dangerously close to landscape induced nirvana.

One of our stops along the road is the Pigeon Point Lighthouse. The majesty, mystery and history of lighthouses has, for my entire life, consumed me in the same manner as my desire to sail. Something about the sea has pulled on me since my birth - which occurred in the middle of this country about as far away from any ocean as possible. I have always sensed its gravity and its pull was never stronger than it was when I saw the signs to the road leading to this lighthouse. I gave a hand signal to Smitty, turned on my left turn signal and turned onto the road toward the lighthouse. We pulled to a stop in the parking lot, I swung my leg over the seat and grabbed my camera.

Pigeon Point lighthouse is fifty miles south of San Francisco. It stands 115 feet high on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. The lamp on Pigeon Point lighthouse went into operation for the first time in 1872. On the wall of the building adjoining the lighthouse tower, there are large foghorns protruding from the house. These foghorns, together with the powerful lamp, warned sailors of the dangers of the coast in this region. I can't help but think about the man that used to operate this equipment when this building was brand new. Travel is easy today, but in 1872, there was nothing within 30 miles of this man whose duty it was to trudge up the many stairs to the top of the lighthouse to make certain that the lamp was filled with oil and operational.

We spend about thirty minutes poking around the grounds. A walkway leads to the back of the lighthouse property where the views of the rockly cliff and the Pacific Ocean are amazing.

The property now includes either a hotel or some sort of a youth hostel, although it is empty of virtually every other life form while we are there. Only a few other people stop to view this property while we are there. I note that it is nearly as desolate now as it probably was in 1872. Because my photography is amaturish, I also want to include this professional shot stolen from the internet which provides a better glimpse of the harsh environs surrounding this 132 year old tower.

After our brief respite from the road and the nostalgic trip through maritime days gone by, it is once again time to put rubber to the road.

In less than an hour we are in the outskirts of San Francisco. Traffic up the PCH is heavy but moving along briskly. As we enter San Francisco proper, you can sense it. The distinct architecture is popping up. Hillside homes lined straight and tall populate the rolling hills of the city. This is no freeway. We hit regular stop lights as we travel on the remnants of Highway 1 which looks like any other surface street in the area. The stop lights are actually a welcome opporunity to look around at this taste of San Francisco.

This street takes us away from the coast and we pass through Golden Gate park and then into an area known as the Presidio. I know I am very close to one of the most aniticipated moments of the trip - crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. In the blink of an eye, we make a turn and there it is standing before us. My neck begins to tingle and that tingle spreads a sheet of goosebumps over my entire body as we roll onto the bridge decking.

Traffic is ridiculously heavy at this point. We put ourselves into the far right lane and crawl along the road at the speed of our choice. I think bicycles were passing us as I soaked up this experience with my head spinning from left to right to left again to avoid missing anything on this two mile stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway. We are 200 feet above the water and it is exhilirating.

Not wanting this to end too soon, we pull into the park on the far north side of the bridge, fight like wildcats to find a parking spot and bring the bikes to rest for another moment. I want a picture with this beautiful landmark. It is fuzzy, but cherished. I count this as a sexual experience - and you can tell by the look on my face that it was good.

Daylight's burning. It is nearly 6:00p.m. by the time we finish our time at the Golden Gate Bridge and we still have some miles to go before we sleep - many more miles as it turns out...