The PCH - Chapter 8

Sunday July 11, 2004
Guernville, CA to Point Arena

We have checked out of the New Dynamic Inn (which is neither new nor dynamic...discuss) and head out for my favorite meal of the day while on the road - breakfast. We find the requisite local diner. In Guernville, this is Pat's Diner. The androgyny of the name fits the town, but the diner is your typical small town coffee, egg, pancake and bacon sort of place. I love these places.

On the wall behind the standard cafe counter is a giant map of the region. By the map, we can now see that we followed the Russian River from the Pacific inland to Guernville. If you are not familiar with the region, the Russian River is right in the middle of California's wine country - if not in the middle, it is certainly a significant part of California's wine country. We also discover from the map that Korbel Champaign is bottled just up the road a mile or two. Cool.

Two shops down the block from Pat's is the Rainbow Lounge - the bar we didn't enter the previous night. The giant neon rainbow over the door is sadly dismal at 8:30 in the morning. Like the rainbow, the local population is also dim and quiet. The cafe has only a few customers and we enjoy a great little breakfast of sausage, eggs and toast as we discuss the plans for the day. Smitty and I both mention the desire to swing by Korbel and check it out, but our inability to find a hotel the night before and the related detour have set us back a little. Thus we decide to venture on.

My first thought of the morning even before breakfast was the same as my last thought of the previous night - I hope my motorcycle runs this morning. I can't stop thinking about that thick, greasy diesel fuel floating around in my otherwise pristine tank. I have about 30 miles on this tank of gas, so I calculate that I am down almost one full gallon when we stop and fill up. In addition to the gasoline, I put a bottle of STP Octane Booster in the tank (as suggested by a guy at the gas station). Immediately I can tell a small difference.

Throughout the day, I repeat this process. Burn out a gallon, add a gallon and some octane booster. By mid-day FLMNG1 is purring like a kitten once again.

Initially, the road is chilly, but the drive up the Russian River back to the coast is delightful. It is very woodsy and rural. When we swing back on to the PCH, that rural feel continues. It reminds me of an Iowa highway (except for the ocean on our left). There are farms and cows and rolling hills. The highway winds back and forth among and between these gently rolling hills as the grasses wave in a gentle wind. At the higher points on the road, clouds plow into the side of the steep hills rising from the sea and the motorcycles carve their way through the resulting bank of fog.

The open road is attractive. It sucks you in. It lulls you into a sense of careless exhiliration. Before you even realize it, those seductive curves have you in a near tantric state of orgasmic bliss; leaning into one curve and accelerating out of it onto a short straight piece of highway only to roll you over onto your other side into the next curve. The hills roll up and down and up and down again while the curves create sensual gravitational forces. Then through a tight "S" marked with a caution sign - 15 MPH...I note we were doing closer to 35. But on the motorcycle, this is pure joy. I have a grin plastered on my face at this point knowing that this is what I came here for.

As with all steamy passionate relationships, they burn out like a comet and this short affair with the highway came to a revolting, gut wrenching end. Our mistress made it very clear that we would not have our way with her today - she was the dominatrix and we her gimp.

I heard the sound first. I knew what it was instantly. Then I saw it in the mirror; nothing but the bottom of Smitty's motorcycle. His wheels were no longer in contact with the pavement. I could see that part that typically contacts the highway in my mirror. I wrench my head around to see Smitty rolling across the other lane of the highway and onto the shoulder as his Electriglide slid to a stop sideways in the road.

At this point, I turned FLMNG1 around and raced back to where Smitty and his bike came to rest. I quickly put down my sidestand, turned off my engine and lept off the bike. By this time, Smitty had raised himself to a sitting position and, while shaken, he was able to communicate to me that he was not seriously hurt. His bike was still in the road and there was traffic coming from both directions and here we were in the middle of an "S" curve. Traffic could not see us from either direction until fully around the corner. The bike had to be moved before someone hit it.
I honestly can't remember if I picked it up myself or if Smitty and I picked it up together. But we managed to lift the 800 pound motorcycle back onto its wheels and pushed it to the shoulder. I assume that it took both of us as this is no easy task.

I am freaked out, but it is clear now that Scott is generally ok. The chaps really saved his ass - in spite of their assless nature. He will be bruised, he will be sore, he has several cuts and scrapes, but he will be fine. I am relieved.

The bike doesn't look so fortunate and, for the second time in two days, I wonder whether the trip has come to an end - this time in the middle of nowhere near Point Arena, California.