Back in the Saddle*: More glory on the Pacific Coast Highway (Mendocino and McKerricher State Park)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Thirteen, Friday June 15

Funny, I think of San Francisco as northern California, but if you look at the map, it isn’t at all.  It’s hardly past the half way point up the coast, really, so – what luck! - there’s plenty more of the state left to see.

After a two day sabbatical from my sort-of-sabbatical, it feels good to be riding again.  Disappointingly, but not surprisingly, I don’t have the glorious open roads I had earlier, when I retrace my path north of the Golden Gate Bridge.  But as I continue away from the city, the traffic eventually thins out, while the pavement remains smooth and ever-twisty.   Even so, I find myself thinking something I’ve never thought before or since:  I almost don’t mind being stuck behind this RV, it’s that beautiful (the view, not the RV).   And then I have another thought, a terrible and terrifying thought:  The rest of my trip - no way, no how can it possibly measure up.    With more than a little sadness,  I brace myself for disappointment, and make a special point to savor what remains of the painfully beautiful California coast I've come to adore.

Are you tired of the Pacific Coast Highway yet?  Clearly, I am not.  As I wind my way ever northward, the ocean view slowly shifts into something more cozy, rustic, and rugged with a misty feeling even though the sky is clear, recalling a Folger’s coffee advertisement backdrop, perhaps, with less of the sparkly almost gaudy Hollywood blingy-blue green of my more southerly exploration.  But it’s getting cold, too, and, in a bizarre break with my character, I’ve yet to reach for my electric vest.   I quickly realize that by the time I reach Mendocino, there’s a very good chance I will simply fall over when I try to put my feet down as I come to a stop.  I am that unsure I’ll be able to move at all.  When I do arrive, I don’t fall over, but I can barely make the left hand turn into town towards the gas station, because I can’t move my arms.  A BMW rider passes me impatiently as I try to do so, and I wonder what he must think I’m doing.  A moment later we find ourselves at the same pump, paying  nearly $6/gallon for gas.  He makes a funny comment,  but I don’t even care about the price.  I’m freezing, and hungry and need to stop.  Besides, Mendocino is beautiful and I have a special point of interest here to visit.

Here’s the Kelley House Museum.  Remember my host in San Francisco?  Her name is Kelley.  No, not Kelly, but Kelley.  It’s also her mom’s maiden name.  And no, it’s not a coincidence.  The museum is closed by the time I arrive, but I have fun peering in the windows.




After a bowl of blessedly warm and caloric but not particularly delicious angel hair with tomato basil cream sauce at “A Cultured Affair,” I head to the water.  It makes for a nice backdrop for the flowers everywhere and I lazily dabble around a bit, enjoying the peaceful landscape while waiting for the pasta to raise my core body temp and blood glucose levels before continuing on my way.






Even though the population density is thinning out, campgrounds are still full and I had only one option when I made a reservation a few days ago.  But the West Pine Campground at MacKerricher State Park is everything the Lake Casitas Campground was not.  Such a diversity of beauty!  Tall pines create a feeling of quiet and privacy at each site, but a few steps away lie rolling dunes covered in interesting plant life. Beyond, the frothy sea.
 


I continue down the beach, looking here and there, and I nearly trip over a sea lion.  Pardon me!
 


There’s tidal lagoon Cleone Lake to explore, and the trail and boardwalk around it takes me deep into those trees you see at the far side.  It’s a Central American jungle back there, dense with enormous and unrecognizable brilliantly green plants having leaves so preposterously big they might double as a kayak and float me across the lake, up to the distant floating mats of pink flowers that are too far away to photograph.  Such a bizarre contrast to the simple blustery coastline only a few steps away!



The surf is up at Laguna Point, and I’m captivated by the crashing waves, but I have no real luck in preserving the excitement on camera.  Too late, I notice my SD card is full, and the other is by now a mile or two behind me, in the Ducati top box.    I’m mesmerized by the surf, and it’s not hard to believe the signs describing the potential for dangerous rogue waves. “Never turn your back on the ocean!”  “Stay back and stay alive!”






Back in my tent, consciousness ebbs into slumber as I listen to the roiling sea.

* I started this post months ago.  Funny that my “Back in the Saddle” post should appear after my unexpected blog hiatus.

No Excuses. Well, yeah, some excuses. (A Number of Occasional Other Matters)

If you’ve been following my Sort Of Sabbatical Phase One By The Day Posts, you probably decided long ago that I finally succumbed to the spectacularly distracting Pacific Coast Highway views and crashed the Ducati into sparkling azure sea.

I didn’t.

So that's good.

Today I thought, as a writing exercise, I’d relate the long list of excuses that brought my posting to a halt.   Do enjoy!

My computer has been acting suspiciously since my return from Sort of Sabbatical Phase One.  Specifically, it has been giving me error messages when I back up my data.  I have, mostly, been successfully ignoring this problem (Me - 1, Computer - 0!), except for the minor side effect that I am not particularly motivated to work on my photographs if there’s a decent possibility I might lose all my work.  Surely you understand.

Then I went on Sort of Sabbatical Phase Two.  Of course I took photos. You’ll see them later.

Then I came back.*  My computer did not fix itself in my absence.  Harrumph. (Computer - 1, Me - 0) After some time-consuming yet unsuccessful attempts to rectify the problem, I went back to my original plan, namely, ignoring the problem.  Not surprisingly, this tactic brought on those same pesky minor side effects.

Then I went on Sort of Sabbatical: Epilogue.  Of course I took photos.  You’ll see them later.

Then I was sequestered, pretty much without internet or phone, for a week in a tiny town in northern New Mexico.  I lived in a retrofitted Airstream trailer, complete with kitchen and farm animals.  I didn’t eat any of the farm animals, but I did  have some two-thumbs-up tapas at La Boca in Santa Fe.  Overall, the week was fantastically hilarious.

It's not often I open an Airstream trailer door.  Even less often do I find a horse begging for a snack on the other side of said door.

Do I have to say that by the time I finally made my way back to Tucson, my computer still wouldn’t back up correctly?**  Heal thyself! (Please?)

Then there was the matter of my last post.  I was, for a time, rather distracted by it all.   Recently, I saw a dead dove in the middle of the street.  Its body was crushed, with one delicate wing miraculously still reaching skyward.  I wish I had taken a photo of it.  Because that’s exactly what it feels like to be run over by a bus.  I know, because just as surely as Julia was betrayed by Winston,*** I was thrown under the bus in a manner so clever I almost admire it, by someone who was (supposedly) my greatest ally.  Pfft.  Not exactly the stuff of superheroes.

Then it was September.  It’s generally a lovely month. I ease myself gently back into work, while enjoying all the local day rides I haven’t seen since May. Except this September I was leisurely repairing the Ducati in time for a track day at the end of the month.  (You’ll find out why the Ducati needed repairs round about, oh, Sort of Sabbatical Phase One Day 25, give or take.)  Leisurely making repairs?  More along the lines of “leisurely inflicting further damage.”  No, I didn’t have it fixed in time for the track day.  I still don’t have it fixed.

Then I decided perhaps it would be more efficient to drive 26 hours to retrieve my Kawasaki, which had been residing in TX, than to fix the Ducati.

Then there was the short but all consuming project of my very first paid food photography gig.  I was actually paid (still waiting on the check, to be honest) to cook and photograph the process of making a certain risotto recipe****. I borrowed a decent camera, turned my little house into a photo studio, cleaned my stove, and took the requested five specific photographs.  If I’m lucky, it’ll boil down to minimum wage.  But it was amusing, and I got to eat a great deal of risotto over the next few days.

The ingredients. And a cookbook.  Although I didn't actually use a recipe from this book.  Do you suppose the Risotto page would lie nicely in the middle of the book like this?  Of course not.  Hurrah for color copiers and tape.

It's quite a trick to pour broth AND stir AND release the camera shutter with your toes or teeth. (I know about self-timers.  Couldn't use it. Long Story.)  The lighting on shiny pans can be rather problematic.  After spending hours getting it right, the sun had moved into the kitchen window. Argh.

Then October hit me like a 12" All-Clad Saute Pan.  I’m still standing here blinking stupidly from the how-did-I-not-see-this-coming avalanche of work.  Speaking of side effects, however, it is nice to finally have some paychecks rolling in.

And my last excuse?  I have a new friend in my life!  Remember this sad day?  Well, I’ve been dog-less and dog-longing ever since.  (No sense in getting a dog before the Sort of Sabbatical).

“Miss Molly” arrives and my heart sings!

My nine year old darling came from Southern Arizona Beagle Rescue.

There she is! All 42 pounds of her!  She's already discovered that I'm immune to the sad brown eyes trick. (Boo!)  But I like to walk. (Yay!)

Hard to say who is happier.  What a lovely, lovely conundrum.

There.   No more excuses. Except neither the computer nor the Ducati work yet. And now I have to borrow a proper camera to get a proper beagle portrait.

*By that I mean I continued on to UT.  To work.  A tiny bit.  And ride more.
** Yes, I should just buy a new one.  Or at least reinstall the OS to rule that out as the problem. (I really don't think it is.)  But the amount of work (and frustration) required by either of those things makes Ducati repair seem like fun.
*** "Do it to Julia!" he cries, when faced with his greatest fear, in George Orwell's 1984.  To be fair, Julia also betrayed Winston in Room 101, we just have fewer details. I still hold some respect for both Julia and Winston, though, based on their circumstances and the final scene where they actually own up to it.
****Shrimp, chile, pine nuts, carrots, and black olives?  Really?  I suppose I wasn't paid to approve of the recipe, just to make and photograph it.  What a silly use of some expensive ingredients.

I Am Eating a Frozen Dinner* (An Occasional Other Matter)

And not the sort I make myself.  Hypo-glycemics do not have the luxury of going off feed, even though eating is the last thing I feel like doing.

I have been deeply, fundamentally hurt by three people in my inner circle in as many months, and my chain has officially come off the sprockets. (I haven't told you the Ducati chain story yet, so you don't get the reference, although you probably do get the point.)

This summer, as I chipped away at my self-professed off-road phobia on my XT, I found myself marveling at this little motorcycle. Li’l Burro!  So steady and surefooted! There’s nothing it can’t do!  Li’l Burro! The machine for the apocalypse!  Whenever I came across a challenge in the road, I’d steel myself, ask “What would Li’l Burro do?,” and ride on, ride up, ride over.  The possible, redefined!

Now, as I sit here, mortally wounded, staring down my “Organic Four Cheese Stone Baked Pizza”, I ask myself once again, “What Would Li’l Burro Do?"




Ride on, ride up, ride over.

*Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  It’s just not my way.

Napa and Sonoma on Four Wheels

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Twelve, Thursday June 14

It’s an Eating on Two Wheels dream of mine to ride to (and eat at) the French Laundry in Napa Valley.  And although I’m darn close to attaining it, today I’m going to Napa in a car and roaming around the French Laundry produce gardens instead.  I want to spend some time with my friend and perhaps taste a bit of wine (both of which require a car), plus it seems one needs to reserve a table at Thomas Keller’s three star restaurant months in advance. Shrug.  C'est la vie.

Not surprisingly, the vistas are rolling and vine covered.




The French Laundry gardens are full of produce (and chickens!) of all sorts.  Artichokes plants, related to thistles, seem an improbable food source.  I'm glad someone thought otherwise.




Bouchon Bakery, another Thomas Keller venture, doesn’t require any advance planning.  Time for our first culinary tasting!  For the second day in a row, I find myself at an extraordinary bakery, and have a difficult decision to make.   Likely I can’t go wrong.
 


The Ham and Cheese on Baguette (not shown) and a lemon tart both score well.
 


We’re thirsty, and Etude Winery calls us, if for no other reason than its musical name.  The enormous black and white photographs of the property displayed in the tasting room are simply spectacular - much more so than the palatable but not amazing wine, although I admit we didn't spring for the reserve tasting.   The real point of interest is the property's history.  It was once a brandy distillery connected to the Remy Martin name, and when it was purchased by the Etude folks, a number of fine barrels of aged liquid gold were included in the transaction.  So if the wine doesn't please, you can bring home a bottle of pinot noir or blended brandy instead.

Helmet hair sans helmet.  Hmmph.  I'm going to have to start going through the strenuous routine of actually combing my hair if I'm going to include photos of myself.

 


The surprise hit of the day: A fried oyster Po’ Boy at the funky retro Fremont Diner in Sonoma.  Fantabulous.




Evidently one can eat well in wine country, even without a table at the French Laundry.  But happy taste buds aside, two days out of the saddle is plenty.  Tomorrow it’s time to get back on the bike.

Parked for a Day (A Pastry and A Walk - Tartine Bakery)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Eleven, Wednesday June 13

Today is a designated quiet day, hanging with my friend, and making the most of having both internet access and a big table on which to lay out maps.  The Ducati is going to remain parked for the first time since I left Tucson and when I’m not using said internet and coffee table to plot the next section of my journey, I’ll be using two legs instead of two wheels.  Which that seems just fine.  Because my two legs are going to get me to the famous Tartine Bakery, which, like Lucca, also happens to lie within dangerously close range to the apartment I’m staying in.

Lots of bakeries make pastries that look delicious.  Some of them make pastries that look delicious and even taste… pretty good.  And with a little trial and error,  one can usually find the occasional excellent croissant without too much trouble.  But Tartine is the exceptional exception.  They make beautiful pastries, every sort imaginable (and some that are not), and each one is a three star work of art to all the senses.  They’re not stale, not dried out, not bland, not anything except dead on perfect.

My god, how do we choose?

I wish I had taken the time to get a really good photo of the display cases.  This photo shows perhaps a third of our options, and not very well . But I always feel I’m being rude, taking extra time with the camera, while my dining companion’s coffee gets cold.

My friend has some experience to draw upon, which is handy in these sorts of difficult situations.




The bread pudding is deadly rich and fully loaded with uncommonly ripe zingy berries and nectarines.  The “morning bun” - so seductively simple! - is elevated far beyond the mundane with its sprinkling of not just sugar,  not just cinnamon sugar, but cinnamon orange sugar.  Why haven’t I thought of that?  And the frangipane croissant is a perfect execution of a classic.  Flaky and buttery almondy-rich.  I don’t buy many cookbooks any more, but I’m considering one from Tartine when I get home.  Let me tell you, that is saying a lot.

After a breakfast like that, continuing on two legs is a good idea.  Plus, this guy would like a walk.




We pass by countless interesting things, and I’m in full on tourist mode, snapping photos here and there.

"Spirit of Mankind" mural, Flynn Elementary School

Up to Bernal Hill we go, and I am enamored with the exercise, the view…




… and the fog!

The fog here really does seem like a living thing.  Watching it approach was absolutely fascinating.  Not much of that in Tucson!

Day Ride with Fellow EX-er: Marin

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Ten, Tuesday June 12

Even though it turns out to be a popular rendezvous point, a parking lot seems like a strange place to meet up with some guy I’ve known only from  EX.com.  So I email him the night before and suggest that perhaps starting our ride from a cafe might be nice.   He’s agreeable.

But between the cafe and the Ducati lies an obstacle of sorts.



I can not believe I’m about to ride across the Golden Gate bridge!  I’ve been marveling at the thought of it since I left Arizona, jabbing my friends in the arm and informing them of this over and over until they wanted to whack me on the Shoei.  But today is the day!  Even though I’ll ride many more miles, and find myself much further from home than San Francisco, for me, the bridge has come to represent the relative bigness of my ride.  It’s so spectacularly, well… landmark!  I’ve come a long way!

Here’s “Apriliarider” arriving at the BridgeWay Cafe on his Italian rocketship.
 


Meeting at a cafe turned out to be a good idea.  These eats are the real deal!




After enjoying our croissants and coffee, (and after I’ve decided Apriliarider is not going to cut my body into pieces and throw them off the bridge), we head off to our parking lot, which happens to afford spectacular views of the bridge. We are not the only ones here, though, oh no.  The spot is mobbed with tourists (many of them on motorcycles) all angling this way and that to get a shot like this:
 


Apriliarider is a gracious tour guide, allowing me time to take countless photos of the Ducati and the bridge, and he has planned out a nice loop for our day.  We stop at the Marin Headlands for another view.




But the scenery for the rest of the afternoon flies by faster than any camera shutter.  The Panoramic Highway (“Mt. Tam Road”) is freshly paved, and we have it 100% to ourselves, which, in a populated area such as this, is a near miracle.  Never in my life have I seen switchbacks in this kind of shape: the pavement is flawless, and there’s not a speck, no not even a crumb, of gravel or sand or road surface hazard of any sort to worry about.  It’s one thing to arrange for a good sporting run on your own turf, it’s quite another to have one fall into your lap while touring.  The only fly in the ointment, and it really is just a small fly, is that I’m moving at “never seen this road before” speed.  Apriliarider is outriding me easily, but he’s a polite enough host to honor my reconnaissance pace and I’m hoping he finds it respectable, at least.  Still and all, my boots kiss pavement a time or two as we dodge about the redwoods, bikes swinging left and right beneath us.  We fly north next, squeezing between the Point Reyes National Seashore on our west and the Golden Gate National Recreation Area on our east,  and then dart southeast with a zig and a zag,  before we – whoosh! - close the loop and part ways with a friendly wave and salute.  It was Splendour on the Asphalt, Glory of the Throttle!  And with that I offer my thanks to Apriliarider... and my apologies to William Wordsworth.

Pacific Coast Highway (Big Sur to San Francisco)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Nine, Monday June 11

After a night’s sleep under the redwoods, I’ve regained the good sense and ability to actually photograph a view or two from the wondrous Pacific Coast Highway that had me so transfixed yesterday.

Good morning!  The gentle cool undergrowth of the redwood forest wakes up my eyes...

Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park

…before I head back into more improbable razzle dazzle.

Ho hum.  More spectacular blues of every sort.  No photo-shopping necessary.

Pfft.  You know what this place is missing?  A waterfall.

On the left you can see the 84 foot drop of McWay Falls.  Because a turquoise blue cove simply isn't enough, I guess.

Oh, silly me.  Of course there’s a waterfall.

If you have the foresight (and luck) to reserve one of the two campsites at Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park a good year in advance, you can enjoy the first overlook from your tent.  But you don’t have to be at an actual park for this kind of view.  Any old stopping place for hundreds of miles along the Pacific Coast Highway will serve equally well.  It really is absurd.

And so I continue, torn between a wonderfully twisty road and nearly paralyzing scenery, until cold, wind, and hunger get my full attention.  I’m hoping to scout out the Italian restaurant in Half Moon Bay my friends speak highly of, or perhaps the famous Alice's Restaurant in Woodside, but I’m just too cold and hungry to  make the effort. I pull over at the first sign of potential nourishment I see, which happens to be Cameron’s Inn and Pub, complete with British phone booths, Royal Mail post boxes, and red double decker busses.  Despite being a wacky funny place, with endless U.K. knick-knacks up and down every wall, and restroom ceilings lined with game boards, I’m not entirely convinced I’m about to get a world class meal.   But I’m ravenous enough to not care.  I suck down cup after cup of hot coffee in an effort to defrost, and although in a different situation I might not be fully impressed with the chowder, I am grateful for the complimentary bowl, since my meal is inexplicably delayed.  The fish and chips are good, I think, but chewing my food is not really a priority at this particular moment.

I’m feeling better after a bit, and gear up for the final short hop to San Francisco.  I wonder how difficult it will be to find parking, and with greater concern,  I wonder exactly how many times I’ll have to struggle with my too-far-to-comfortably-reach-with-my-little-hands clutch lever while stopped at the top of the city's famous (and dreadful) hills.  It's been several years since I've dropped a bike, but between not really being able to reach my clutch lever properly, and the added weight of my luggage, this seems like a good opportunity to reacquaint myself with the technique of picking up a downed motorcycle.  I take a deep breath and head north.

Motorcycle specific parking abounds. For free, even!  The Ducati makes its home amongst two wheeled neighbors of every sort on (I Am Not Making This Up) Hill Street.  Someone was nice enough to let us two-wheelers have the flat bit.

My host and her dog meet the Ducati.  The dog doesn't seem appropriately impressed.

Turns out it’s just as well I didn’t eat Italian food back in Half Moon Bay.  Because upon arrival in San Francisco, my good friends providing me with a much needed “hospitality stop” greet me with all manner of tasty treats from Lucca. This Italian deli, along with many other fine establishments I’ll sample over the next few days, happens to be dangerously located just around the corner.  I have chosen well!