The PCH - Chapter 7

Saturday, July 10, 2004
Golden Gate Bridge to Guernville, CA

After crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, we head through Sausalito and bear west toward Muir Woods. The sun is making its way toward the hilly horizon as we climb the switchbacks and twists and turns of the PCH as it heads toward Muir Beach. Unfortunately, the horizon that the sun is making its way towards is directly in our line of sight. The next several miles we ride nearly blind until we reach the top of the rocky hills that block the valley from the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean.

The sun is finally out of our eyes and we bear to the right, heading again due north. We are on what I refer to as a "hogback." On our right the shoulder of the road gives way to what appears to be a couple hundred feet steep slope down into a valley. On our left is a similar steep slope down to the sea.

The 15 miles from Sausalito, CA to Stinson Beach, CA (SEE MAP) is a series of hairpin curves and steep grades - all with the ocean far below. It is slow, laborious, exhilirating, gorgeous, nerve-wracking and blissfully free. But it soaks up valuable daylight. When we take a break to snap a few pictures, Smitty voices some regret at coming this way instead of the more direct route up CA101. But this route stays true to our original goal and the landscape is more than worth the effort. Two of the three pictures in this section were taken during this rest stop.

Finally, we dip down toward sea level as we enter into the town of Stinson Beach. Smitty is in the lead as we roll into this small beach community. As the speed limit dips down to 30 miles per hour, I notice a large white goose walking down the side of Highway 1. He seems to be minding his own business. But as Smitty passes by, I watch as he lunges toward his legs - just missing giving Smitty a nip and probably just missing getting his head torn off.

It occurs to me that I have to pass this mean son-of-a-bitch. With traffic coming in the other direction, I have little choice. I gun it a little as I pass this angry wandering water-fowl and lift my legs off the footpegs to make it that much more difficult for him to get a taste of the Pink Flamingos. I hate birds...

It is nearly 7:00 by the time we complete this stretch of road. Less than 20 miles in distance takes us almost 45 minutes to cover. When the signs say Sharp Curve Speed Limit 15 MPH - they aren't kidding.

The plan is to overnight in Bodega Bay. Bodega Bay is the small California town in which Alfred Hitchcock filmed the movie, The Birds. The Birds was filmed in 1963 and is a terrifying story in which all of the birds (sea gulls, crows, etc.) begin to attack and kill humans. If you haven't seen it, it is certainly worth a rental.

We have already nearly been attacked by one bird and Bodega Bay isn't finished extracting its pound of flesh from the Flamingos. We finally roll into Bodega Bay as the sun's last rays fizzle in the far western Pacific waters to find exactly two hotels in town. One of those hotels is closed. The other hotel has a room for us if we want to spend $300 and stay in a luxurious romantic suite.

Now, I like Smitty, don't get me wrong. He is a handsome man although less dreamy than Brad Pitt he is more dreamy than Ernest Borgnine. BUT, I was not up for spending $300 for a romantic setting.

Exhausted, dejected and concerned about finding a place to roost, the Flamingos leave Bodega Bay and continue north. We pass through Salmon Creek - Nothing. We pass through Jenner - nothing but a B&B that is closed for the night and a cheesy roadside gas station with two pumps.

I need gas (see, Jungle Jane, we do stop for fuel!) and we want to find directions to a motel, so we stop. Flaming1 waits patiently for me as I go through the motions to pay for the fuel. I pull out the pump handle, insert it into the tank and begin pumping. I'm immediately irritated by a greasy feel to the pump nozzle and an unusual odor - but I pump a little bit more and bitch to Smitty, "Shit, this nozzle is greasy, what's up with this thing?"

Upon my inquiry, Smitty looks up and says to me, "Holy shit, it's diesel!"

If you are familiar with auto mechanics, I am stating the obvious. But if you are unfamiliar with auto mechanics, pumping diesel into a gasoline tank is a bad thing. It's thick, oily and has an entirely different chemical makeup and certainly a different octane rating. As of that moment, I had .998 gallons of that shit in my 5.6 gallon tank.

I probably should have stopped and drained the tank right there, but it was dark, we were in the middle of nowhere, I didn't have many tools and I was damn tired. So, I topped it off with Premium, poured in a bottle of octane booster and hit the ignition.

It sputtered, it smoked, it gagged and rumbled, but it ran. Flaming1, I am soooo sorry!

The gas station attendant was not overly helpful, but he did inform us that our best bet for a room would be to head inland from Jenner and possibly inland as far as Santa Rosa. This was quite a bit of backtracking, so we were not thrilled about it, but we headed inland along the Russian River.

It was too dark to enjoy the views along the Russian River and, since Flaming1 was threatening to cough up a lung and die at any moment, we raced along as quickly as we could. We stopped briefly at three or four roadside motels - but found nothing until we rolled into Guernville, California.

Finally, in Guernville, we found a motel with a vacancy sign. The name on the sign in front of this motel read "The New Dynamic Inn." It struck me that this motel did not appear either new nor dynamic. Additionally I wondered whether there might be an "Old Dynamic Inn." I was too tired to resolve any of these questions that night and they remain unresolved today. A future opportunity.

We checked in to our room and our attention turned toward sustinence.

Guernville, as it turns out, is one of the gayest towns I have ever been in. Within the three block walk from the New Dynamic Inn to the city center (2 restaurants and some closed shops), we ran into several men in drag and rowdy bands of drunken men out for the evening. And then there was Smitty and me - wearing leather and assless chaps (of course they were assless - otherwise they would have been pants). Hmmm...well, at least we fit in.

The first restaurant had a giant neon rainbow above the doorway - I did not write down the name of the place, but it did not look like anyone in this place was actually eating (food). So, we decided on the second option - a quaint neighborhood pizza restaurant. Smitty and I settled into a table while a little musical trio tuned and set up their instruments - a piano, a bass and some xylophone type instrument. We ordered pizza and a couple of beers and let out a big sigh of relaxation - finally we were settled in, getting food and knew where we were sleeping later.

The musicians began to play and it was very pleasant and it took our minds off the wait for the pizza. When the pizza arrived, we dived in. Nothing like beer and pizza at the end of a long day riding and the accompanying stress of pumping diesel into your tank. I leaned back, took a draw from my icy cold beer and glanced around the room. Oddly enough, there must have been 20 tables in this place and each table was occupied by - two men...including ours.

I leaned in to whisper to Smitty, "I have some bad news and some good news for you."

"What's the bad news."

"Tonight, we are a gay couple." I laughed as I gestured with raised brows at the rest of the room.

He glanced around and asked, "What's the good news?"

To which I simply responded, "There really isn't any, but I wanted to stay optimistic."

We finished our pizza and headed back to the New Dynamic Inn (where I am certain the innkeeper was also certain of our couple status), closed and locked the door behind us.

What happens in Guernville, stays in Guernville.