Motorcycles, Mendocino and Dancing with the Devil

(A note to readers: This piece is far longer than any I have ever sent out with Window on Old Town. Please view it as a chapter of a book rather than a column. Print it out and, I know you'll enjoy it! --gary)

The basic concept sounded sweet: A three-day, two-night minimalist motorcycle trip to Mendocino and Bodega Bay, with an emphasis on riding hard, sleeping on the ground and when it struck our fancy, stopping at wineries along the way. The idea was to design a trip the polar opposite of my recent high-roller excursion to Paso Robles and Santa Barbara where excess was the order of the day.

This time there would be no carefully orchestrated itinerary, no suites, no four-course dinners with wine pairings. Instead, we would seek out the twistiest roads, ride all day and stay wherever—sleeping in tents and cooking out-of-doors. We’d get off the road early to afford as much time as possible for sipping great wine and puffing on great cigars. With the weather forecast dialed in at California-perfect, this trip promised to be a 60-hour Kodak moment.

In the end, it was a totally manic-depressive experience—the best of all trips, the worst of all trips—and one that could have very easily cost me my life.

I’ve been riding motorcycles for more than 40 years, and there is nothing—and I mean nothing—that I enjoy more, and I’ll never give them up for anything or anybody. At the moment, there are two in my garage: a 2000 Harley-Davidson Road King, with a V-twin 88-inch motor bored out to 95 inches to make room for a monster cam; plus a 1999 Triumph Trophy, a triple cylinder machine with 900cc generating upwards of 100 horsepower. Two different bikes for whichever me wakes up in the morning.

More often than not, I crank up the Hawg. I was a sucker for these things for decades before I could actually afford to acquire the first of four that I have owned. It’s a bad-assed machine, for sure, and I love to rumble down Millertown Road early in the morning, wind out first gear and then listen to the SuperTrapp exhaust back off when I roll off the throttle and hit second. The vibrations make my ribs resonate in perfect pitch with the motor, and I feel a connection between flesh and steel that every committed rider senses instinctively yet is seldom able to verbalize.

While I am enamored of the machine, I totally reject the “Harley Lifestyle” marketing myth perpetuated by the “Motor Company.” I absolutely detest the riding apparel—leather, tee shirts, chaps, pins and all of the other assorted crap people buy in order to become invested in the culture. I especially abhor the concept of “runs,” hordes of riders cruising from bar to bar, posing with other posers. This has absolutely nothing to do with motorcycling.

Gary's Road King parked at our first campsite in Caspar Beach, just past Mendocino

My thing is to ride one-up, alone. I appreciate the pure joy of getting in the wind and booking solitary miles through the California landscape, some of the most drop-dead beautiful country I’ve ever witnessed, and I’ve been around, believe me. No XM radio, no CDs, simply the omnipresent baritone of the engine coupled with a ceaseless rush of air. It frees your mind and gives you time to think.

I have to acknowledge, though, that my best riding has always been with a buddy. There are two outcomes when you ride with a friend. You either cement the relationship eternally or you ruin it once and for all. In the days when I rode out of Chicago, my riding partner and mentor was Bernie Berry, and he toured the country with me on three ultra long-distance adventures. We are forever friends.

After seven years of living in Auburn, I’ve never found a similar companion, though that looks like it has changed now that another Bernie—Bernie Fox of Lake of the Pines—partnered with me on this latest two-wheeler tour of Wine Country.

Though they have never met, these two Bernies are brothers from another mother. They are so much alike it makes my skin crawl. For starters, they are men’s men, and many of their life’s passions are in lockstep with my own. They are both accomplished, life-long gear heads, with motorcycles a central theme in their existence. Both are outdoors fanatics and entirely fascinated with guns. . .shotguns, handguns, long guns, you name it, if it goes “boom” they like it. Both love to travel. Both are generous to a fault. Both savor cigars. Both are excellent chefs and both have—at one time or another—succumbed to the allure of fine wines. Both enthusiastically feed the beast of impulsiveness whenever it calls. They are each risk takers and heart breakers, both currently on marriage #4. And both Bernies pretty much don’t give a damn about what other people think. My kinda guys.

There is something else unique about them. At the moment of our first encounters, I had an overpowering intuition that we would become great friends—the kind of friends you could trust to watch your back no matter what. Perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, but it happened and I consider myself to have relationships with these guys that in reality are stronger, more enduring bonds than I’ve encountered in marriage or in love. That’s not the way it’s supposed to be, is it?

Getting ready for the Mendocino ride was a simple matter for me. I appreciate all things out-of-doors, but I’m no camper—no freakin’ way. Bernie’s instructions were to pack clothing for three days and to bring cigars and wine. He would supply everything else. . .tents, sleeping bags, cooking equipment, food and all of the other goodies necessary for three days of independence. This dude is really into it, with the latest gear that packs down into incredibly tiny packages, including a French press coffee maker.

With gear loaded on my Road King and Bernie’s BMW, we left his house at just after 9 on a Thursday morning for the short hop up Rte. 49 to Rte. 20, a two-lane road that would take us all the way to the Pacific Ocean, roughly 150 miles distant. Rte. 20 has a bad case of ADD; it just can’t concentrate on anything, it seems to morph into something new every five miles or so.

Our entry point was at Grass Valley, where the roadway was wide and smooth and the turns sweeping and inviting. Once through Penn Valley, though, at the precise moment we were settling our butts into the saddles, we hit the first of a series of construction interruptions. “Be Prepared for 30 Minute Waits,” the electric signs warned. “Blasting Ahead.” No problem. We shut down the motors, and tipped the bikes on their stands, passing the time in idle conversation. Long stretches of the road were being widened—good for commuters, I suppose, but, opps there goes another great chunk of asphalt.

The names of places in California fascinate me. “Cool” comes to mind immediately, as does Rough & Ready. Just before crossing over the Yuba River, we encountered a burg that most people would be willing to claim as their hometown: Smartville. “Yeah, I’m from Smartville, dip shit, got a problem with that?” Makes me wonder if there is an inverse to this community somewhere, perhaps a Dumbsville or Duncetown, CA.

It did not take long to roll off the edge of the foothills and into the valley below, where the world quickly turned flat and barren. Now I finally understand how folks can live on a budget in California. . .you do it in either Marysville or Yuba City, back-to-back, bare bones communities, laden with closed businesses and hardscrabble homes. The roadway is lined with fast-food outlets and auto parts stores, most with a design connection to the 70s. Just over the Feather River in Yuba City is a well-worn Waffle Barn; directly across the street is a sister store called the Boot Barn. If the Waffle Barn’s bacon exhibits the texture of shoe leather, well perhaps there is a connection.

Once clear of the twin cities, it was all rice fields and farm land, with the Sutter Buttes offering the only visual distraction. What are “buttes” anyway? How did they happen? Right in the middle of nothingness rises a stark erection of earth, perhaps the Creator’s way of just showing off.

Barely a mile beyond I-5 we stopped in Williams at a Shell station for fuel, since neither of us topped off our tanks before leaving home. Talk about a juncture in nowhere, excuse me, but this place is located clear outside of the solar system. The upside is that once back on Rte. 20, the riding turns spectacular—as good as it gets. We rolled down a perfectly straight stretch towards a sprawling range of hills, ever-so-gently rising, with a 180-degree, High Definition vista opening before our eyes. My head bobbed from side to side as I took in unobstructed views of the world around me.

Once 20 pierced the hills, it ran through a valley dotted with scrubby trees. The hillsides were still green, but the low humidity and heat of the early afternoon were a portent of the brownness. . .the unrelenting neutral hue. . .that would soon mask Northern California. There was not a single structure anywhere to be seen, and we were mostly alone on the highway, so our path was virtually unspoiled. The road rose up slowly and segued into sinewy twists and turns as the trees clustered more closely on its edge.

Bernie had traveled over our proposed route many times, so I asked him to lead on the trip. While I am an experienced rider, he is my better by at least a factor of two, and I did not want to get in his way. I was candid with him from the beginning. “Look, my friend, I don’t want to get killed on this trip. I’m going to ride within myself, because I know what I can and what I can’t do. You get in front, and if you get ahead, I’ll catch up eventually.”

From the get-go, we paired up nicely, like an old married couple. Through the straight stretches, I’d tuck in behind Bernie on the right, back maybe a bike length or two. In the corners I’d give him more room, but I’d follow his line through the turns. That made riding easy for me, unless he screwed up, in which case I’d probably end up following him off the road.

Every rider knows his limits, and I know when I hit mine, especially in corners. We talked about this, and Bernie coached me on something early in the trip that ended up savings us both a world of hurt at the very end. “If you feel like you’re going over the yellow line, don’t look where the bike is going, look where you want to go and lean that way. You’ll go there automatically.” Advice understood completely, visualized in my mind’s eye and fully road tested over the next two days.

This trip was a monotonous barrage of incredible beauty, amazing sights and smells both pungent and subtle. We cruised through it all—inside looming redwood forests that turned the day into night and pummeled us with heavenly fragrances; alongside turbulent rivers; against the brutal and rugged California shoreline; over towering bridges in the open air; through the symmetry of manicured vineyards; and through dozens of delightful little villages struggling to survive on the tourist trade.

As wonderful as the riding was, the wine was just okay and the overnight accommodations were, frankly, abominable (sorry, Bern). Bernie picked our first winery venue by signaling a flip-flop after we passed “Ceago Vinegarden,” a veritable jewel on the north shore of Clear Lake just before Rte. 20 peels away from the water.

The place stunk of money. A Spanish-style compound of red-tiled buildings surrounding a courtyard opened out on to the lake. The grounds were meticulously planned and maintained, right down to a flower and vegetable garden that fueled the just-opened kitchen. We learned that the winery was a venture of the Fetzer family, owners of a giant winery that sold out to corporate interests in 1992. Their non-compete finally ran out and they are now able to produce wines again, albeit not under their own name.

After a brief stop near Clear Lake, Bernie and Gary get ready to move on.

Rather than taste wines, Bernie and I opted to sit outside and share a flight of three—a merlot, cab and syrah (a total of 7.5 ounces between the two of us for those of you keeping track of consumption). We paired this with four artisan cheeses that sufficed nicely as lunch. Of the three wines, only the merlot, a 2002 vintage, would I consider for sale in Carpe Vino, but not priced at $25. Outstanding capitalization notwithstanding, it takes much more to make outstanding wines—particularly time.

Next stop was Mendocino, reached only after navigating a seriously winding road that I thought would never give out. I eventually tired of attacking the corners behind Bernie, settling into a sort of détente, where I politely and gently maneuvered through the turns.

As tourist traps go, Mendocino is pretty freakin’ cool, downright awesome in fact. We pulled in on a perfect afternoon. . .brilliant sky with a slight chop in the ocean. It was chilly riding along the coast, but in town the temperature was quite pleasant. Most of the buildings are wooden frame and painted in soft colors, lots of interesting structures and abundant architectural ornamentation. Most of the town appears to have been preserved and I didn’t observe much new construction. If I could characterize Mendocino in one word it would be “cozy,” plus I really felt welcomed there no matter where we went. Storekeepers were friendly to a fault.

It’s easy to understand why so many movies have been shot in Mendocino. “East of Eden,” “The Russians are Coming,” “Wired” and “The Majestic” were all filmed here, along with many scenes from episodes of “Murder She Wrote.” In fact, the annual Mendocino Film Festival was starting that very day, and I picked up a brochure on the titles being screened. My comment, “Man, there are some pretty interesting films being shown this weekend,” didn’t draw any interest from my traveling companion, so I guess I’ll go back another time.

After picking up a couple of bottles of wine at the Mendocino Wine Company, the producers of the Mike Ditka brand that we carry in Carpe Vino, we headed out to find a campground. This turned out to be a bit of a challenge since both nearby state parks were filled thanks to a seriously low ocean tide that encouraged Abalone divers to come out in droves.

Abalone is a sea mollusk delicacy found along the North Coast that can be taken only by free divers; you can’t use SCUBA gear. I’m not sure about the season or limits for a season, but you can only have three in your possession at any given time. Fines are substantial for violations, and the area is teeming with Fish & Game officers.

We ended up staying in a private campground at Caspar Beach, a cove right on the ocean. There are separate areas for RVs and tent campers, who all share access to a laundry, showers, game room and convenience store. I’m sorry, I just don’t get it and I never will. Why do people buy these huge vehicles, spending hundreds of thousands of dollars, only to park them in crowded lots? Compounding the issue, they spend all of their time sitting outside on lawn chairs rather than enjoying the comfort of their RVs. They do all of their cooking outside rather than mess up the onboard galleys. Someone, please, explain the rationale behind this.

Our accommodations were—to be charitable—Spartan. The space was pleasant enough; a creek ran right along side our campsite which was ringed by delicate ferns and other lush vegetation. Bernie insisted on setting up the tents, so I opened the wine and jotted down some notes about the day. We used a paraffin log to anchor a fire and we sat around it for hours, sipping Zig Zag Zin and another less memorable bottle that I purchased in Mendocino.

Writing it down before I forget. . .

Dinner was a treat made in two pans that doubled as our plates. In one pan Bernie heated instant rice; in the other he warmed up a package of Banquet Meal Toppers, a kind of vacuum-packed Turkey a la king. When both pans were piping hot, he mixed them back and forth until there were equal steamy portions, and he handed me a spoon. A little French bread, a little cheese; I was famished. . .the meal was stunning. No kidding, I haven’t been that sated or satisfied in a long time.

The sleeping accommodations were another story entirely. Even though Bernie awarded me the larger of two tents, I detest enclosed spaces and I knew it was going to be a long night. My sleeping bag resembled a mummy’s shroud, and once I was tucked in, all I wanted to do was get out. I fought the claustrophobia for a couple of hours, and finally bolted upright and struggled with the tent door zippers so I could stick my head out for air. Sounds stupid, I know, but it’s no fun.

Did I also mention I hate spiders? I finally get comfortable, but trying to sleep is useless because of all of the noise of other campers and Bernie a few feet away, snoring to beat the band. I looked up and right above my head is a huge spider hanging from a strand. I bolted upright for the second time in 20 minutes and fumbled for my notebook cum spider-swatter and my eye glasses. . .I can’t see anything without them. With my glasses in place, it turns out the spider is actually a button hanging from a cord, a simple tieback device.

By this point, after riding all day, I’m completely spent. I closed my eyes and the next thing I heard was a car door slamming at 6:10 a.m., our Abalone diver neighbors setting out for the ocean.

Our original plan was loose—we’d play it by ear and stay out two or three nights depending on how far we got. After one night of sleeping on the ground (even with the benefit of a high-tech air mattress), I was now firmly committed to the two-night package.

Our Abalone diving neighbors with a 10-inch monster taken near Caspar Beach.

Friday was off to a slow-motion start of lounging around, drinking coffee, reading and getting a hot shower. Today we would hit a few wineries and end up at a state park in Bodega Bay and just chill around a campfire for the evening. We worked the plan smoothly enough, first cruising through the Navarro Redwood Forest before hitting a pocket of wineries in Anderson Valley.

I know what you are thinking already: “My God, these morons are going to drink wine and then get back on their motorcycles?” No, fool, I said we were going to “taste” wine, there is a huge difference. As I’ve mentioned in earlier pieces, what separates the professionals from rank amateurs in wine is the practice of “spitting.” Some people are grossed out by the technique or feel it is less than civil, but as a person making a collateral living out of wine, if I didn’t spit when tasting, my liver wouldn’t last the rest of the decade. The corollary for amateurs is spend an afternoon tasting wines without spitting and you could end up in a wreck or you could make a new friend in law enforcement. DUIs are no fun at all; ask anyone who has been through the ordeal.

Tasting is a simple process that Miles demonstrated succinctly in the movie, “Sideways.” The important things to remember are spend time with each wine rather than blowing through the line-up. Try to get a true sense of the nose (get yours deep in the glass) and let the wine marinate your palate. The really hard part is not swallowing; you’ve got to spew the stuff into a bucket (or in the floor drain if you are tasting in a winery). I know it’s a whole bunch of foreplay without the big payoff, but life ain’t perfect, is it?

Much of the joy in this trip for me was the sense of simple discovery. This was my first time over much of the route, so every sight hitting my eyeballs was fresh and new. It’s not like being an explorer or an adventurer—this is just wine country, for God’s sake—but being introduced to the unknown, one mile at a time, gives me a major rush of well-being that I seek to replicate over and over again.

I barely get 150 miles out of a tank of gas, and my “low fuel” dummy light came on as we emerged from the redwoods. I pulled up even with Bernie and pointed at my tank to signal my fuel issue, and he pointed at his. We both needed petrol, but the lone gas station we encountered sold only diesel and 87 octane. My bike was already pinging with 91, and as it wasn’t exactly a 911 yet, we opt to continue on.

Our first stop was Handley Cellars, and I’ve got to say I was disappointed with the wine. Perhaps it was because these were the first wines I tasted after brushing my teeth earlier in the day, but I didn’t get excited about anything despite tasting at least eight vintages. Perhaps I should go back another time and try again.

Roederer Estate was another story entirely. We tasted through the list of sparkling wines, and they were all wonderful, especially the 2000 L’Ermitage, a special “Tête de Cuvée,” a blend of chardonnay and pinot noir grapes with 1.2% residual sugar. It had a sweet edge to it, but not as full as a demi sec. Yet, it would make a great dessert wine, in my opinion. I bought a bottle of pinot to go with dinner.

The best stop was at Lazy Creek, a place Drew discovered on a recent trip. So far we’ve gone through more than 30 cases of their offerings, and I wanted to try and meet the owner and winemaker, Josh Chandler. I didn’t set up an appointment because I really had no clue about when we would be rolling through.

To get to the winery, you must drive a dusty half mile along a tree-covered gravel road and cross three wood-planked bridges, not a lot of fun on a big bike but all part of the joy. The winery is delightful: you pull up to a small cottage that is surrounded by flower gardens and walk through to a small courtyard ringed by wooden outbuildings, one of which is the winery building. Josh wasn’t around, but his father-in-law was pouring in the barrel room. We tried two pinot noirs and the 2005 Lazy Creek Gewurztraminer, which was the best wine of the day. Dry, crisp, great fruit citrus and it was refreshing. I even granted myself a swallow.

Back on the road again I was down to running on fumes so we pushed through to the only gas station in Philo to quench our tanks. We’re basically out in the middle of nowhere and I expected high prices, but not $3.96 per gallon (the highest I’d seen on the road was $3.69 for 91 octane). No matter, we filled up and the owner came outside to say hello. “Great day for riding. . .where are you guys headed this afternoon?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s wonderful, “ I replied. “We’re probably gonna spend some time looking for cheaper gas.”

Our final winery “must” stop was at Meyer Family Cellars in Yorkville. This is the place founded by Justin Meyer, the former Christian Brothers monk who launched Silver Oak, a brand he cultivated into cult status over 28 years before selling out. Justin passed away in 2002 and his son Matt, a U.C. Davis grad, took over the operations. Meyer Family Cellars was just profiled in the San Francisco Chronicle and it’s wines were lauded. We tasted two syrah vintages and a port blended from Lodi old vine zins and averaging eight years old when released. Very nice stuff, indeed.

More riding, including a stint on 101, got us closer to our end point of Bodega Bay. Bernie pulled off at Korbel Champagne Cellars, located on River Road in Guerneville, where we stopped for a very late lunch but no wine. I don’t know how they can use the word “Champagne” since they really make sparkling wine, but hey, I’m no cop.

Motorcycle trips tend to be predictable and repetitious—ride, eat, sleep—so I’ll fast forward this to our final destination, the wind blown RV encampment at Doran Regional Park, a bleak spit of sand and gravel that pokes out into the ocean to provide a shield for Bodega Harbor (the shooting location for Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds”). Riding up to the entrance, my first reaction was “Nooooooooooo, no freakin’ way am I staying here tonight.” An unrelenting wind of at least 25 mph was blowing, and I had every expectation that it would get worse, not better. The ranger at the gate said there were only three camp sites remaining.

“Let’s at least check it out,” Bernie prodded.

We rode in and decided on the second site we looked at, but not before I begged: “Come on Bern, let’s get a motel—I’m buying.” Bernie set up camp while I rode back into town for Firestarter logs, and, of course, more wine.

Suffice to say, I passed one of the most miserable nights of a career on the road. We huddled near the fire all evening, so I reeked of smoke when I finally turned in. Even though I wore all of my clothes, including a hooded sweatshirt I picked up in Mendocino (thank God!), I still froze my ass. A group of late arrivals set up tents right next to ours and launched into an all-night party. I knew I was in trouble when the guy with the guitar shouted, “Who knows the words to ‘House of the Rising Sun’”? After a screeching rendition he added, “Hey, this is like Karaoke without a TV.” Then, they broke out the tequila.

When I opened my eyes in the morning, it was to the sound of rain drops caressing my tent. “Shit, that’s all I need. . .riding out of here in the wind and the rain.”

Every bone in my abused body ached as I rolled over and crawled out of my fabric prison on hands and knees. The entire beach was fogged in, a chilly wind blew and a heavy dampness hugged the ground. Bernie was already up, and I hobbled over to our picnic bench and collapsed. “All I want to do is pack up and get the hell outta here,” I ordered.

Bernie’s reaction was to laugh at me and grab his camera. “Okay, okay, I’ve had enough, too.”

Within an hour we were on the road, and within a mere five minutes from the park we were cruising along the coast in bright sunshine. I thought the worst was over, but that was just wishful thinking. We weren’t even close to hitting bottom.

After a beautiful run to Petaluma through happy cows grazing and more vineyards and ranch land, we stopped for breakfast and then for a final gas stop before the two- and one-half hour turn for home. I filled my tank first and pulled up to wait for Bernie. I stopped in a narrow aisle between the pumps and building to allow a giant pickup truck to pull out. Instead of moving forward, though, he backed right into me and would have pushed me over if Bernie hadn’t pulled around instantly to call the knucklehead off. The damage was minimal, but anything to do with a Harley is expensive, and I warned the other driver when he gave me his insurance details.

Finally underway again, we turned off on Rte. 116 to pick up Rte. 12 that would take us to Napa and then I-80 for the straight shot back to Auburn. Rte. 116 cuts through barren, rolling hills with easy turns mostly absent of shoulders. You make a mistake here, you could be in trouble.

This was the third day of looking at Bernie’s back, and we were cruising along at a steady 55 mph. I was cheating toward the middle of the road because of the shoulder issue, with maybe four bike lengths of separation. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what happened next because I can’t believe I made it through the event in one piece. What happened occurred in a flash, blindsiding us without a nanosecond of warning.

We had just crested a rise and were headed down a slight slope with a car approaching from the opposite direction. I had my eyes glued on Bernie’s back, when suddenly a turkey buzzard with a wingspan of at least ten feet, simply dropped out of the sky. It had the appearance of piercing the edge of a camera frame—one second it wasn’t there, the next it blotted out everything.

I can recall every detail of the moment, the immensity of the animal, wings laid out straight and full even though it was just a few feet off the ground. I can see the curves of the feathers, white on the edges and then black with a massive head poking out of the middle.

No doubt this carnivore had been circling the scene for a few minutes, checking out the freshly killed jack rabbit lying in the middle of the roadway. As we crested the hill, he chose that precise moment to drop into his dive, focused intently on swooping down and snatching the carrion with his practiced claws.

Bernie reacted instantly, nailing the brakes and turning his head away to avoid contact with the flying object, which after seeming to stall, hit the afterburners and was airborne again. When Bernie’s rear light came on, I was already jammed on my brakes hard, and the Harley’s ass end was starting to slide out from under me.

The problem in this situation is that BMWs are vastly mechanically superior to Harleys in every measure. Bernie’s anti-lock braking system stopped him cold and in a perfectly straight line. Panic-stopping a Harley is an entirely different animal. Without ABS, they tend to skid, so the best thing to do is stay off the back brake, which is what I did after immediately sensing I was losing the bike.

After that, it was all instinct. The bike righted itself, I took my eyes off of Bernie and picked the hole down the middle of the road, leaned to the left and shot the gap cleanly between the BMW and the car in the other lane. At least I think that’s what happened.

The only thing I know with all certainty is the one word I screamed out: “Fuuuccccccccccck!”

If my choice had been to stay on the brakes in an attempt to stop, I would have plowed into Bernie for certain, 1,000 pounds of me and Milwaukee Iron crack-backing my friend. The Harley would have gone down for sure, and I would have slid into the decelerating BMW at upwards of 45 mph, just like a base runner coming in high trying to break up a double play by taking the legs out from under the shortstop.

It would have been a real bummer for Bernie: one moment of exhilaration thinking he had dodged a bullet by missing the buzzard; the next he is flying backward through the air after taking a Road King in the ass. I don’t even want to think of the worst-case implications of what could have resulted, but I’m fairly certainly a life flight would have been in our future.

What is on my mind is my conversation with Bernie and about staying out of trouble in the corners; about not looking where you’re going but focusing on where you want to be, thinking I seem to have had on autopilot on Rte. 116. Timely advice, for sure.

I finally pulled the bike to a halt and Bernie caught up with me. “If I hadn’t stopped I would have hit that thing,” he shouted over the motor and wind. I nodded, found first gear and we were off again. I really didn’t dwell on what happened; all I wanted to do was go home.

Enough excitement for one day, wouldn’t you agree? Well, in fact, there was one more curveball in store for us.

After stopping briefly at the Tobacco Republic in Loomis, we decided to take Taylor Road to Auburn rather than getting back on the freeway. I don’t know how many times I’ve been on this road since I’ve lived here—at least 100, for sure. And in that time, I’ve never seen an animal near the road, not even at night.

We were cruising along between Loomis and Newcastle at 1 p.m. when a doe as large as I’ve ever seen bounded across the pavement in front of us. It came close, but it wasn’t a real danger. What caused us to hit the skids again was the fact that when you see one deer on the highway, there are always one or two more that will follow in rapid succession. On this day, though, one was all we got.

I followed Bernie to Rte. 193 where he peeled off to get back on the freeway. I went straight home, parked the Hawg, got undressed and crawled into my own wonderful bed. I slept for five hours and then got up and showered so I could go help out for a couple of hours at Carpe Vino. Sunday did not exist for me because I slept through it.

I’ve talked to Bernie a couple of times since getting home, and he’s already pitching ideas for our next trip. Yosemite sounds like a good choice, but I’m not sleeping on the ground or in a tent ever again. You can take that to the bank, along with the fact that guys named “Bernie” make damned fine riding partners.

Catch you in the wine bar,
Gary

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