Cedarville, CA to Crescent City, CA

Day 17 (continued) - Cedarville, CA to Eureka, CA

Redding, CA is hot--Texas hot. Somehow, central California felt hotter than my ride through west Texas. After 2 hours of marinating in my own juices (...gross...), I arrived at the moto shop. I was relieved that my tire patch had made it, but I was not looking forward to dropping money on a new tire.
I found Jason behind the parts counter and we remarked on our common red-headed representation. I chatted with him about my trip and I think I gave him a case of wanderlust. He convinced the shop guys to change out my tire in 1 hour instead of 3 and Jason treated me to lunch in the meantime--what a guy! We clicked immediately. There were a handful of recent life experiences with which we could both relate. We returned to the shop after lunch and the bike was ready to go, although I don't think Jason wanted me to leave. I checked the spark plugs and found that they were sporting an almost neon orange color. It was very strange, but I attributed it to the funky air at the Burning Man Festival.
I left Redding in the middle of the afternoon and rode west on CA SR299, a beautiful, twisty road through the Trinity National Forest. Attention men: this road had the highest number of babes on sportbikes that I have ever witnessed. I kept getting my ass handed to me by Suzuki SV's, Ducati Monsters and Ninja 650's--all piloted by small-framed riders with ponytails swooshing around from under their helmets. At gas stations, I determined that these riders were total babes! I chatted with one of them, Nancy, who was another fellow red-head (whoever says that we are a dying breed is full of shit). She was an art curator from the bay area who had ridden up for the weekend. I envied her access to such amazing roads. We exchanged information and then she smoked my ass on her SV 1000. I had been taking it easy on my new rear tire (which I am totally milking as an excuse for getting smoked) since it was a higher profile, more sporty tire that felt very different than my old knobby one. It made the bike handle much differently and I didn't want to take any chances on the sharp curves of SR 299. I had one of my few close calls on this road. The northern California hippie engineers did not design the roads with the proper banking. On some curves, especially chicanes, the banking was in the opposite direction of the curve radius which come as a surprise to a rider who is faced with a seemingly sharper curve than what was anticipated. I almost lost it in one of the turns. I was forced to take a turn much wider than I had planned and was inches from hitting the gravel shoulder and low-side crashing. Aside from this time and when a stupid blond woman in a giant SUV nearly ran me off the interstate outside of Reno (which I had anticipated, so I was able to avoid disaster), I didn't have any other close calls--not bad for a several thousand mile trip.
I rolled into Willow City, CA just as a Sasquatch crossed the road in front of me--no, really. It was the beginning of the city's annual Bigfoot Days celebration weekend. Apparently, Willow City is located near where the first Bigfoot sighting occurred--you've seen the famous photo. Anyway, there were several costumed Sasquatches rambling around town. It was surreal.

I arrived in Arcata, CA around sunset and checked into a motel. This was going to be my first "real" shower in almost a week and I was looking forward to it. I had expected the motel room, priced at $75 (above my normal price range), to be clean and include little bottles of organic hair care products and Roman digestion dwarf to massage my belly after eating. Instead I found a run-down room with more stains than a whore house, cigarette burns in the sheets, patched-together chairs, and a toilet that made a sound like a dying parakeet. I am not usually a complainer. In accordance with my origin in the Lutheran-dominated state of Minnesota, I have a tendency to just take what I am given and not complain, regardless of how horrendous the offering. Minnesotans actually enjoy getting a shitty deal--to eat whatever gross hotdish is put before them, to be happy about getting the small, non-corner piece of cake, to accept incorrect change in a transaction for fear of "making a scene,"--they feel too guilty about it getting what they want. It is absurd and I had to break ranks and put my foot down. I complained about the room and the stoned hippy girl a the front desk gave me a different room. I opened the door to the replacement room, only to find a similarly awful dump but with the addition of a cat pee aroma and three spiders scuttling around the room, one of them on the bed. As I was discerning the origin of the stain on the wall, a hoopti ass ride rolled up and the hippie occupants started doing maintenance on it 4 feet from my door. Two doors down, a room full of hippies were already wasted and blasting their music. This whole place was not only crawling with spiders, but also with damned hippies. By this point, I was so sick of hippies.
I just wanted to stay in a halfway decent room and away from the granola-munchers. At $75, I was getting screwed. These rooms were a $20 value at best. I had a better hotel room in the ghetto of Quito, Ecuador and that was only $10.
However, all of the other rooms in town for the Blues on the Bay music festival that weekend. I was trapped in this dump and it really brought be down. I called a hotel in Eureka, CA, six miles away and scored a room due to a last-minute cancellation. The only issue was that the room was over $100 and I had already dropped a few hundred on a new tire that day. I decided that it was worth my sanity. I told the front desk girl that I needed a refund and loaded the bike back up.
As I was repacking the bike, an interaction with my would-be neighbor confirmed that I was making the right decision. He was a parody of hippies everywhere, but he was legitimately moronic--it wasn't just an act. He came up to me and oogled my bike, but not in the manner of an appreciative fellow motorcyclist--more like the way that a thief scans and determines the value of merchandise. Between calling his friends "brah" and asking random hippie girls if they were going to the Jerry Garcia Tribute Laser Show, he told me about his friends' plans to buy motorcycles, grow out their beards, dye them gray, and dress like old motorcycle dudes to as a cover to transport hash across the country. I wished him luck with that and got the hell out of there.
I rode 6 miles south along Arcata Bay to Eureka, CA. The whole time, my engine was misfiring and I was worried that I would not make it the whole way. For some reason, misty weather made the bike run poorly. Or was it just the spark plugs? I didn't care, I just wanted to get to a comfortable bed, free of hippies, spiders, or strange stains. I arrived at a Victorian-era hotel that was set up like a public house, with a bar on the corner and rooms upstairs. It was carved and gilded to excess but it was exactly what I needed. The interior included a large theater with a stained-glass ceiling, where they let me park my motorcycle. My bike was not used to such decadence. On all other days, it had been ridden hard and put away wet. Because she was not housebroken, I had to put some newspapers under her so she didn't leak on the polished wood floors.

Clara in her ballroom attire...and diaper

The hotel maintenance guy, Ty, helped me bring the bike inside--he sensed immediately that the bike was way too big for me. We struck up a conversation. He was a good kid. My room was ridiculous--it had been furnished with actual antique Victorian furniture, not "antique-effect" furniture. The room was only $100, which was crazy, considering the quality. But when I opened the shower to finally chip off the grime from Burning Man and a 10 mile walk through the high desert, a spider was in there waiting for me...of course. I stalked it, then mercilessly smashed it using 30x more force than was needed to kill it (in the style of my friend Anne, who taught me well). I took the longest, most indulgent shower of my life, single-handedly contributing to depletion of the local aquifer and bogarting all the hot water from other guests.  Don't tell my eco-conscious friends. It's ok, I plant trees for a living--can't a girl get a carbon credit or two?

Day 18 - Eureka, CA to Crescent City, CA

I got a really late start out of Eureka, partially due to a bagel indulgence and partially due to some motorcycle love. I topped Clara up with oil...there was a suspicious amount missing, but I let it slide. Oil color: redwood buttress. I noticed that Ty had left me a red rose on my handlebars.

Awwww

 Awww. He was one of a few dozen men I left with a longing in their hearts. It was not my intention, but honestly it felt really great to be complimented and given the googly-eyes by smitten gents, so indulged myself and let them bring it on. More than simply providing a not-so-hideous thing to look at, I think I inspired envy--they wanted to be in my place and they admired me for actually following through and carrying on this trip. I planted the seed in their minds of a fantasy, an existence they desired that was contrary to the everyday one around them. I know the feeling well and it made me feel great to know that I was finally on the other side.
I made my way up the misty coast and into Redwood National and State Parks. This is what I had come to the coast for. The woody behemoths flanking my route were more impressive than I'd imagined. I even got a little misty-eyed about them (remember, I'm still in soft, fluffy northern California, where it's ok to cry about anything).

I took a scenic spur road through Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park and it made me wish I had started earlier in the day so I could explore more of the trails. My heels and ankles were still crippled by the recent unintended High Desert Half-Marathon, so I rationalized my laziness and walked all of the .15 mile loops normally reserved for the obese RV-hibernators. The spores of filamentous soil bacteria, the botanical volatile oils carried as aerosols by the damp air, the musty animal aromas, the worm poo, and the aromatic esters created by mycelium busting through rotten wood lignin all made love in my nostrils. It was like a drug.

Newton B. Drury Scenic Parkway

Big ass trunk with lots o' epiphytes

Clara, for scale

The coast redwoods and sitka spruce are what were the original draw to the west coast and now I was fluttering between them like a little woodland fairy (before you judge, think: northern California).
At some point in that day (I can't remember when--it may have been a dream), I took a spur road and I happened upon the magical place where all of the sexy woodsmen congregate, also known as a wildland firefighter outpost. Ladies--these men aren't the reserve wildland firefighters, the pudgy kids called up from Wisconsin during large fire outbreaks--these men are the Feds, the professional forester/hotties. When they are not jumping from helicopters with chainsaws in their hands, they are collecting data, growing their beards, rescuing baby owls, and sculpting their trim, chiseled, herculean bodies--the kind of men that make a woman want to throw themselves into their arms and cry "save me!" despite a lack of any dire situation. They were a little surprised that I was there--I guess most tourists didn't venture down this road. They had warm, friendly smiles so I stopped the bike to chat. One of the hunky specimens approached me and said "What's a sexy woman on a sexy motorcycle doing out here" as he threw an ax over his shoulder and winked. Just kidding. That didn't really happen. I only wished it had happened. Anyway, I told them about the motorcycle trip, which they became very curious about. I also told them that I work with trees for a living and we chatted about their forestry work. I'd never blushed before during a conversation about forest stand structure and fuel loading--until that day. Both parties impressed, we parted ways after exchanging information, agreeing to keep in touch. Sorry ladies (and some of you guys), I was too shy to snap a photo with them.
I continued on along the Redwood Highway to Hwy 199, which followed the Smith River. I had hoped to camp at Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park, but it was full of RV campers for the holiday weekend. Damn. I tried pleading with the campground manager, saying I had ridden all the way from Texas to camp here (which really was true), but I got no sympathy. Government workers never have any sympathy for whiners. They are trained to have no emotion whatsoever. I should know--I work with them.
So I checked into yet another motel, but this one was normal, boring, and cheap. No spiders. I unloaded my stuff from the bike and took her for an evening stroll through the redwoods. I stopped along the way to pick more fresh blackberries than a person can eat in three days...and I ate them all in one sitting. Take that, Whole Foods! I see your fresh, organic, $6.99/pint blackberries and I raise you a "hyper-local" endorsement, so shove it.  I'm going to have a hard time buying blackberries after visiting the Pacific Northwest.

Mmm. Freshly picked blackberries. I ate them until I was sick

A local couple joined me and the man, Mike, told me about all the best fishing spots along the Smith River--too bad I don't fish (Winston, I took notes!). I followed the road along the river and was treated to yet another gorgeous sunset. Over the course of the trip, I'd witnessed more sunsets than I had in months!

Sunset stroll with Clara along the Smith River

 I continued on the same road until it narrowed and then turned to gravel. It was getting dark. The road sign listed 15 miles of winding roads. I followed the road for 1 mile and the road continued to deteriorate. Because the flat tire in the desert incident was so fresh in my mind and because I had no food, water, shelter, or tools with me, I decided to turn around and conquer this road in the morning.
As I sat outside my hotel room, I tuned into the drama in the hotel proprietor's life. It was better than TV. The proprietor was one of those women who had taken on (or been handed) way too much in their lives. She ran the hotel, cleaned the hotel, and watched after her kids and her sister's kids all day. Her phone conversations sounded like the dialogue from a Jerry Springer Show. She was tough as nails but I could tell that she was constantly on the brink of a meltdown. I chose my words carefully with her and I tiptoed around her like she was a wild animal. She approached me the next day to tell me that she envied my life--"no kids, no husband, no boyfriend--you are free to roam around the country on your motorcycle. I envy you, girl." I felt bad for her--she was a sweet woman but she was completely worn down. I felt fortunate to be at a place in my life that afforded this amazing opportunity. I took note of the people in my life who had introduced me to motorcycles and the people who gave me the courage to do a trip like this. As I drifted off to sleep, I thanked my lucky stars to have (or have had) them in my life.

Black Rock City, NV to Cedarville, CA

Day 16 (continued) - Black Rock City to Cedarville, NV

As I rode out of the Burning Man Festival and past a pirate ship art car, I regretted not staying another day. As it turns out, Nevada was not done with me yet...
Since I was departing for the northern California coast, I wanted to take a route that took me as due west as possible. I took Route 447 out of Gerlach, instead of following the RV caravan of burners south toward Reno. 447 was a gorgeous road, and it lacked much traffic beyond the occasional dust-soaked burner vehicle. I didn't want to go too far north, instead wanting to cut across to Highway 395 and through the Lassen National Forest to visit some volcanic moonscapes and hot springs. I studied the map and the GPS (thanks Winston!!!) and found a road that cut across some mountains and high desert. It was called whimsically Tuledad Road. It was a 60 mile long gravel road and I didn't have cell phone reception, but the road was in good shape, I had plenty of gas and sunlight, and it was going to cut 70 miles off of my route. I decided to take it. As I geared up, I pulled an earplug out of my pocket and it found a jeweled bindi stuck to it, a relic of my recent Burning Man past. I laughed.

A Burning Man relic

Tuledad was quite the fun road! It twisted through sagebrush-covered mountains and gave me some much needed space after spending days in the tumultuous ball of humanity that was Burning Man. It wound back and forth along mountain ridges and my only company included some cows and jackrabbits. It was evident that this road had not been traversed in a long time. There were sagebrush tumbleweeds on the road that I had to swerve around and cow patties that had decomposed without being imprinted by a single tire track. It afforded some much needed solace. My mind wandered and I began assessing my life back at home--the things and people I missed, the things I was not looking forward to returning to, the terrible decisions I had made within the past year...the regrets, the guilt, the pain I had caused--as well  as the amazing silver-lining of the sour turn my life had taken and all of the joy it had brought as a result. I realized that I was happy to be where I landed in life, despite the tough road that brought me to the present. After all, it had taken me to this beautiful high desert road and through the incredible experiences of the past few weeks.
Just then, I heard a loud, hollow thunking sound, but I didn't think much of it, assuming it was the sound made by a rock shooting out from under my tire, a common occurrence on a gravel road. I turned a corner and slowed down a bit. Just after I had rounded the corner, the back of the bike felt very unstable. It was swerving wildly like I had hit a patch of sand, but the road was firm.
FUCK!
FUCK!
FUCK!
I realized what had happened. I had punctured the rear tire and it had gone flat. I said to myself out loud: "So this is when the adventure begins." I remembered what an ex-boyfriend had told me about how to handle a bike with a flat tire. With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I let off the gas, pulled in the clutch, and channeled every last bit of my concentration into keeping the bike upright and slowly coming to a stop. Slowly, slowly...I dreaded crashing more than anything. It could make a bad problem worse. I stopped and as the dust whooshed past me, I just sat there for a minute on the still-idling bike, grateful that the bike and I were both upright. I looked at the rear tire and confirmed the issue, in the way a person tests for a broken bone when he already knows the answer.

Fuck.

The adventure begins

 After exercising all of the expletives I knew, I started to assess what needed to be done and what my options were. I looked around to try to figure out where I was--there was only one sign and my front tire had stopped just before reaching it. The sign, facing the opposite direction, said "Welcome to Nevada!" Ha! Nevada wasn't done with me yet. I laughed my head off at the incredible odds of landing at that exact spot and because the laughing channeled the adrenaline and nervous energy to keep me from freaking out and crying this dry desert green. I knew that I couldn't get the bike on the center stand without taking all of the gear off--I wasn't sure I could even get it on the stand without the gear, so I took off every bit of weight I could, including the seat and the tool kit. I put the stand down and pulled as hard as I could, but the straining was in vain. I rolled it up a shallow slope and on the top of a short rut so that each of the center stand legs were in a sight depression. I heaved: aaaaarggghh! Still no luck. I was so close. After trying several dozen times and almost tipping the bike over (which would have made my problem worse), I put it back on the kickstand and got into a stare-down with my stubborn Claramond von Haselhorst. I cursed myself for choosing such a big bike to do this trip upon. When I realized that, despite my strong wanting and possession of Mystical Fire, neither of those things were going to help me levitate the bike onto the center stand and get the bike out of the damn desert. If I couldn't use brute force, I was going to need some finesse. I used the Nevada/California state line sign, the most sturdy vertical structure for miles, to assist me. I backed the bike up to it, used a ratchet strap and bungee cord to provide backward force, and hoisted that beast right up onto the center stand. Finally, after 30 minutes of trying, I had succeeded. Now it was time to assess the damage. I spun the tire and scrutinized its surface, looking for the little bastard object that interrupted my good day of riding, but I couldn't find the bloody thing! I spun the tire over and over and over. I thought about filling the tire with my only CO2 cartridge and pouring some water on it to find the puncture, but I was hesitant to use my water for any other purpose than personal hydration, especially since I didn't know how long I was going to be out there. I finally found the puncture...it was a 1" gash on my tubeless tires. My tire repair kit was useless. My heart sank. The sun was starting to set. I had two options, camp there and reassess the situation in the morning or start walking. Knowing that the chances of fixing the tire were going to be slim, I packed up some warm clothes, water, food, GPS, phone, and wallet and started walking. Now I had plenty of time to ponder the blissful fortunes and terrible mistakes of the road behind and ahead. It felt good to use my legs.
Now I had plenty of time and space to think. Now I had plenty of time and space to think. Instead of freaking out (at least initially), I told myself that the flat tire was a fortune in disguise, a much needed chance to sort some things out. I thought about the interactions I'd had with people on the trip and how my attitude had changed along the way. The further I traveled from Austin, the more I let go of fear, regret, sadness and uncertainty in my life and my future, and my attachment to what I thought I needed in order to be sustainably happy. I just let it go and left it on the side of that desolate road to decompose under those intense UV rays, to be scavenged by coyotes and cougars, and to be buried by that fine orange dust. If I had started AA at the outset of my walk, I could have conquered at least Step 10 by the time I found another human.
(Damn, this is turning out to be a long post with no photos--thanks for sticking with me)
I hoped that the baggage I had left near my motorcycle was not meeting that same fate as I walked farther from it. I had left a note on the front of my bike: "HELP!"; and another wedged into the seat stating what had happened, where I was going, and who should be called to be informed of my situation. I took the gear off of my bike and stashed it in the sagebrush. Later, I told this to a local, who laughed and said that the cattle out there would learn to read and discern that message before a human would have driven down that road. 
I knew the road was long, but it felt like I had been walking for a couple hours. The sun was setting. The road twisted up and over some mountains and when I crested them and looked at the road ahead, my heart sank. Along the horizon, I could barely make out a linear break in the sagebrush--447 was still many miles away. I sat down and proceeded to freak out. It was starting to get dark and cold and the reality of the situation set in. I was fucked. Not only did I not have cell phone coverage, but I had told the people I had been checking in with on a daily basis that I would be out of cell phone coverage for a few days during Burning Man. Nobody would question my cellular silence for 3 or 4 days.
I started crying and thinking about the people in my life that I love and wanted to see again. I wished at least that they were there at that moment to commiserate with me. I felt so alone. And desperate. I thought about setting a fire--it was certainly dry enough and it would certainly get someone's attention. There couldn't have been anything for miles that couldn't use a good pyro-scrubbing. Or was there? I realized how selfish the fire idea was--even if I died out here, it wouldn't be worth loss of life and property elsewhere--but I kept the idea in my back pocket, next to the lighter I brought in case I needed to start a controlled fire for warmth. I screamed as loudly as I could and it echoed through the valley, and my misery was briefly interrupted by realizing how cool it sounded. Then I sunk back into my hole and screamed again with more gusto. I really wanted to shoot a gun at that moment. In that barren landscape, one could have wildly shot into the air, guns in both hands, like Yosemite Sam or Hunter S. Thompson on an ether binge. I sat there for another minute and realized that my tantrum was not getting me anywhere. Embarrassed, I stood up and pressed on. I started singing because it sounded so cool and I knew that nobody could hear me. I am such a terrible singer that I even avoid singing in the shower, fearing that a neighbor might catch a few decibels of my audio murder. But out here, only the jackrabbits would hear me--and they can shove it.
I pressed on, singing all of the songs to which I am sheepish about knowing the lyrics. It was perhaps the only time that the song "Shoop" had resonated through those canyon walls. After another hour of walking, my ankles were screaming with pain. As it turns out, stiff, reinforced motorcycle boots, designed to protect the delicate ankle bones during a crash, make dreadful hiking boots. I blister easily, but this had been a whole new level of skin abuse. Later, I would take off my boots to find that the entire heel region of my sock was soaked in blood and I won't even begin to describe the horrorshow that laid beneath the sock when I peeled it off of my foot. I couldn't walk normally for days. I hobbled around like the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz--pre-oiling.
Hours passed. But I was determined to get to that road. I took some shortcuts through the sagebrush to avoid extra distance added by the road switchbacks. The sagebrush gave off the most sublime scent as I brushed through it. As I made it back to the road and kept walking, I realized the foolishness of what I had just done--and a local would later reinforce how idiotic it was by heaving you-stupid-city-slicker lectures at my sheepish face. I had just walked about a mile through prime rattlesnake habitat. That was really stupid. I played out the Choose Your Own Adventure/Demise scenarios in my head and thanked Shiva/Buddha/Jesus that no fangs had been drawn. Later, on one of the main roads, I saw dozens of rattlesnake roadkills--the population was robust.
I walked by a parcel of land that I had noticed on the ride out and thought it might hold some promise. The place was graveyard for terrible cars from the 80s, smashed up demolition derby cars and mobile homes and RV's that also appear to have been in a demolition derby or two. It appeared uninhabited. Regardless, I did not want to find out what sort of life forms might be living in there. I had hoped that this place might be helpful. It was like I had been fooled by a mirage oasis. I took my chances with the desert instead.

I stopped to put on my long underwear and another wool sweater. I started running as I got close to 447--I didn't want to get close only to see a car drive by that I couldn't flag down in time. My now it was dark. I switched my headlamp to disco mode so the flashing might be noticed. Of course, a car had driven by as I was less than a quarter mile away. All of my headlamp flashing, screaming and arm waving would prove ineffective.
Finally........I arrived at 447. Later, I calculated that I had walked about 10 miles.
But my arrival was anti-climatic. I could see for miles in either direction...miles of empty pavement. I didn't know what to do with myself. Should I keep walking along 447 and in what direction? Instead, I pulled out my journal and wrote to focus my nervous energy. It would turn out to be the most illegible writing sample of my life. Minutes passed...more minutes passed...darkness thickened and the milky way started to wake up and stretch its arms across the sky. It was beautiful. Maybe I should have camped that night. 20 minutes had passed and I worried that I would be out there all night. I kept scrawling gibberish and got so into my verbal Jackson Pollack painting that I almost missed the set of lights coming my way. My heart raced. I'm saved! It was how I imagine sailors feel after seeing seagulls (indicators of nearby land) after being lost at sea for weeks.
I made sure that there was no way this person would be able to pass me without seeing me. I stood in the middle of the road, waved my arms wildly, and even started jumping. The driver must have thought that I was nuttier than squirrel shit, but he stopped. It was a cement truck. Great...this was probably some creepy trucker guy who is going to do terrible things to me then use my body as reinforcement in a new sidewalk. I took my chances. He rolled down his window and I just started bawling. I started retelling of my misfortune between sobs, but he interrupted me to tell me to get in. I stepped up into the truck and looked around--no guns, no creepy photos, no rope or lye in sight. As I told him my story, I kept my guard up. He told me about his wife and kids, his cement business, and his stint at Boston University to study physics, I relaxed a little more. As it turned out, David Goodwin was a very kind, generous man. The funny part--he was only driving about 40 mph because he had a flat rear tire! If he didn't have that flat, he would have been well past me by the time I had arrived at 447. Since he had dual rear tires, it didn't cripple him--it just made the ride really bumpy.
He drove 25 miles before regaining his cell reception (there aren't many hipsters with iPhones in the desert, so it is an AT&T cell reception desert too). I used his phone to call AAA to arrange a tow. It was one of the most frustrating phone conversations I can remember. After I gave the operator the location of the bike, which I knew had been lost in translation, she insisted that I be AT the vehicle before she dispatched a tow truck. What?! I asked her if the tow truck could pick me up and she gave me a firm "no." Plus, the bike was going to be towed to a town (with tire services) that was 20 miles from where David was stopping for the night and the tow truck driver, according to AAA, would not go looking for the gear I had stashed in the sagebrush. The operator transferred me to a car rental service: the nearest one was 70 miles. My frustration was thinly veiled. I got lost on the AAA phone tree and decided to just deal with it in the morning. I left messages with some friends and family and arrived in Cedarville about 20 minutes later. David hooked me up with a hotel room. I took a lackluster shower--my toiletries were still near by bike. I had looked forward to that first shower, having not had one for 5 days. It was better than a night stranded in the desert. I slipped my naked body beneath the sheets and dozed off--until a loud knock startled me so badly that I hopped out of bed. Being alone, naked, and having no cell reception put me on edge. A little interdoor communication revealed that the tow truck guy had tracked me down. I got dressed and hopped in his truck (which is ok with him, but not AAA). Gerry could have been cast as the tow truck driver in a small town--he fit perfectly, mullet, mustache, and an Arkansas heritage. We chatted at length about vegetable gardening, probably one of the only things we had in common. He was a wealth of knowledge. As we drove along Tuledad road, we got a feel for the size of the jackrabbit population. At no point was there not a jackrabbit in the headlights. At times, there were dozens. It was impossible to avoid crushing some along the way. Gerry winced each time, because it was unnecessary to be killing them and because he was taught to "eat everythin' ya kill." I think he would have picked up all the roadkill rabbits if I hadn't been there. He explained to me how to skin and butcher one. Gerry was a wealth of knowledge. We arrived at the bike, loaded it up and hauled her sorry ass back to civilization.

Poor little Claramond

 Day 17 - Cedarville, CA to Eureka, CA

In order to get to the bike the next morning, David's mother-in-law gave me a ride to Alturas, CA. Joanne was a very kind woman and despite the thick of cigarette smoke cloud in her car, the ride was very pleasant. The sun was just starting to heat up the rock formations along the road and the healthy rattlesnake population became evident. The local tire shop put a patch in my tire and made me promise not to ride too far on it. They shop crew was great--they called up motorcycle shops in Redding to inquire about a tire that would fit my bike. Their buddy Jason in Redding set one aside.
The ride out of Alturas was tense. I was constantly worried that the tire patch would fail. I rode about a hundred miles on 2 square inches of butt cheek. Every gust of crosswind and imperfection in the road that caused my bike to quiver was cause for further muscle contractions. A roadside art installation lightened the mood a bit, as did the amazing roads and the fact that the tire had not failed yet. And the California coast was beckoning.

Random roadside art in rural CA

 
Redding, CA is hot--Texas hot. Somehow, central California felt hotter than my ride through west Texas.

(to be continued)

San Francisco, CA to Black Rock City, NV

Day 13 - San Francisco, CA to South Lake Tahoe, CA

With hesitation beget by leaving such a great city, I set off from San Francisco with a cute brown bag lunch, helpfully labeled with my name, that Jeff made for me. I rode over some of the steepest hills in the city, which was terrifying while on a bike that was too big and tall for me, carrying way too much gear. I rolled through all of the stop signs and made hand-signal apologies to all the cross traffic. I couldn't stop this crazy train or I would fall over. I was relieved to get to sea level. I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and was treated to a gorgeous view of the city. Fog flanked the sides of the skyscrapers like fake snow in a holiday gift display window. It's like the fog always knows where to place itself as an enchanting, complementary accessory. I decided to take a side-trip to the Burning Man Festival in Black Rock City, in north eastern Nevada. I'd never been to the festival, I had a ticket, and some friends of mine I hadn't seen in six years were there and had a camp all set up. I was only a few hundred miles away, after all.
I rode through central California and the temperature quickly shot back into the 90s. I stopped at a gas station to shed clothes, eat lunch, and investigate the trinkets that Jeff left me in my lunch bag. I blasted through hot flat central California and zoned out while catching up on podcasts of This American Life. I hit the Eldorado National Forest along Hwy 50, where the altitude rose and the temperature dropped nicely into the 70s. The road was sublime and I remarked to myself at the incredible diversity of landscapes in California.
I hit South Lake Tahoe in the evening and decided to stop for the night. I thought about continuing on to Reno and doing my semi-annual $5 gambling spree and gorging myself on cheap buffet food, but I wanted to take the long way around Lake Tahoe and that would put be on twisty roads in the dark. I checked in with my parents, and they mentioned that a friend of theirs had a friend who knew a friend in South Lake Tahoe. Three degrees of separation, but what the heck? I called him up and learned that I was only a few blocks away. I should have heeded the 2nd degree of separation friend's warning: "You can call him Al. Al Coholic." I laughed at his comment, knowing that most people drink and like to joke about it like it's a new thing. He was not kidding around. This guy, Rick, was piss drunk when I got there. He was a 60ish aged excavator and when I showed up, he didn't quite know what to make of me, either because I was a young woman traveling alone on a motorcycle...or because he was piss drunk. Either way, he looked at me like I was a 5-headed leprechaun. He told me, on four separate occasions and with horribly slurred speech, to park my bike in the yard and not on the street. I asked if it was because of the risk of it being hit or stolen. His reply: "We don't have too many Mexicans 'round here, but there still are a few thieves." I was stunned and didn't know whether he was saying that Mexicans were poor drivers or thieves. Ok, so this guy is a racist, but at least he doesn't trigger the creep sensor. My Mexican friend told me later that I should have replied: "Well, as long as there aren't any Asians driving around here."
In the time it took to unpack my bike and put my stuff in his spare room (and granted, I am a dawdler) he had cracked and demolished three beers. Three of the cheapest beers money can buy...this guy was a professional. I eavesdropped on his drunken contract negotiation phone conversation: "I could built a fuckin skyscraper with my class A license...I don't have the knowledge or expertise to do it, but...fuck yeah, I got 2 million dollar coverage--who the hell do you think I am?" I changed clothes and as I examined the incredibly tacky tapestry on the wall (I should have paid him $5 for it and sold it to an Austin hipster for $50), I threw my jeans down on the bed and a cloud of sawdust filled the room. The spare bedroom was also his woodshop. And gun storage room, based on the items lining the floor against the wall. I knew that my life would become MUCH more dusty in the next few days, thanks to the playa at Burning Man and I wasn't going to complain about free lodging, so I headed out for some food as Rick cracked another beer. The guy was nice enough and I thanked him profusely for sharing his space...and got the hell outta there for the evening.

Move over, "Three Wolf Moon" t-shirt, this tapestry has an owl-moon!

I found a natural foods cafe and gorged myself on veggies and caught up on a few emails. I started to feel like a celebrity on my motorcycle--people would bother me and ask about it when all I wanted to do was sink into the recesses of a quiet coffee shop. Instead, inevitably some guy would come over, drool for a few minutes while I told him about my trip, and then launch into the ins and outs of the accessories he bought recently for his Ducati 1096 or R1 or whatever. I would pretend that I new what the fuck he was talking about by nodding politely. I am really not a gear junkie or motorhead, but because I was on a motorcycle, these guys assumed I had the requisite dude-knowledge built into by brain. When I start to feel annoyed, I take a step back and realize: it IS pretty fucking cool that I'm doing this...and I bathe myself in the compliments and own my badassery. Wow, I need more photos in this post. There's way too much text. Thanks for still reading!

Day 14-16 - South Lake Tahoe, CA to Black Rock City, NV

So I slept soundly that night and got up at the ass-crack of dawn and blasted out of South Lake Tahoe. Luckily, by bike had not been commandeered overnight by Muslims or grafitti'ed by Irishmen. I gave Rick, who had sobered up into a charming old man, a thanful goodbye and rode up the west side of the lake as the sun rose. It was a divinely gorgeous lake, an enormous pool of blue sparkly mermaid habitat. I watched as someone blew up a hot air balloon from the deck of a boat in the center and rode along yet another set of perfectly banked turns.

Lovely Lake Tahoe and a boat-deck hot air balloon launch (look closely)

 I made it to Reno by late morning and provisioned for Burning Man. I couldn't carry much--and luckily there would be people there to take care of me--so I grabbed a few things and rolled out. I had noticed some oil leaking from right cylinder head of the bike, but my all-knowing mechanic told me it was nothing to be worried about. Better to be over-paranoid than stuck in the middle of nowhere (I had no idea that this is exactly what was going to happen to me, but for a different reason...I'm giving you a taste of the next episode--this is where I would cut to a commercial. Good story-telling, eh? Ok, I'll get over myself and stop writing as a stream-of-consciousness)

Not to worry, it's just a leaky old beemer

I rolled through Gerlach, NV, the last (very small) city before entering the playa and the Burning Man Festival. The city was full of "Get your Burner Gear Here" stands and signs advertising hot showers. I stopped into a bar to use the bathroom and fill up my Camelbak with ice. I found some weary burners in there. They had returned to Gerlach and it was only the second day of the festival. Were they down on their luck? I asked. they were New Yorkers. It made sense. They couldn't hack it in the "wilderness" of a festival in the middle of the desert--nevermind that during Burning Man, Black Rock City is the 5th largest in the state and with most of the amenities if you are willing to trade a charm bracelet or cookie for it. They were not ready for trading for a beer--they were using good old fashioned cash to buy some.

Poor, bewildered burners from New York

As I approached the festival, I could see the stirred-up dust from miles away. I stocked up on fresh air. It was a windy day and the addition of thousands of RV's carrying trailers did not help. The speed limit into the festival was 10 mph, which was excruciating on a bike with all of my gear on. I budged a little bit in the line to get in (I think most people were understanding) and got lots of "wooo's" from people as I rode to my camp, where I got a hero's welcome. One of the other campmates, Marc, was also a motorcycle tourer and more or less humped my leg before I could even get off of the bike. He was a harmless flirt and a absolute riot to be around. Everyone was very helpful with getting my gear off the bike and into a dusty storage tent. The camp was named Bearwhalea, after the evolutionary link between the bear and the whale.

The Armadildo, our other camp mascot. Great for stirring drinks, until we couldn't account for its whereabouts

A few of the camp movers and shakers were ecologists, so it made perfect sense. The camp brought together friends from Minneapolis, Chicago, Kentucky, Cinncinati, No. California, and probably other places. The camp had constructed a three story scaffold structure, set up shade canopies, arranged a living room with couches, and made the camp into a dusty home away from home. The benefit of having two craft liquor distillers in the camp meant that we had a fully stocked bar with every type of liquor I could have ever imagined, including some of their delicious moonshine gin. My friend Zac was one of these people. He had also put a LOT of work into the camp due to his being gung-ho about Burning Man and his desire to procrastinate finishing his PhD dissertation. Upon arrival, I drank a beer from their three-story beer bong (I sheepishly admit that this is the first beer bong I have ever used). The problem with drinking a beer from three stories is the exponential gravitational acceleration that it picks up along the way. The beer hit my mouth and bad things involving my sinuses occurred afterward. I got a beer bath as well. Let the party start.

So overstimulated. Couldn't manage to photograph the camp without getting my finger in the way

 I whipped off my riding gear and clothes, but not all of them--after all, I'm still too much of a prude to go completely nude, unlike 25% of the festival-goers. I wore a bikini, cowboy boots, and a turban. My camp-mate Lori outfitted me with a tutu. After all, it was "Tutu Tuesday." Lori was one of my two "mama bears" at camp, who took care of me, the newbie. Zac's girlfriend Michelle was the other mama. She made sure I had enough water, snacks, and booze to get me through a playa day. I feel like she would have even cleaned up and kissed any boo-boo's or scraped up knees I might have gotten. I became even more fond of her when she, reclining in a frilly pink dress, told the group about a time when she butchered an elk. She let me borrow a sparkly butterfly top and a leopard print jacket. I am so grateful that I landed with the Bearwhalea camp.

My playa turban. Thanks Lori!

The dust-storm version

Sparkle-pony! Thanks Michelle. You came prepared.

 
I wandered around aimlessly, my head in a confetti fishbowl. I was overstimulated and had a hard time communicating or doing simple tasks like filling my water bottle. This place was an ADD-affected person's dreamscape. There were beautiful naked people, bizarre artful creations, and sensory explosions at every turn. The whole city was a swirl of color and texture, as if it had been drenched in clown vomit. The best parts of the festival, well one of the many best things, is that everything is free and it is zero impact. There was no trash anywhere and if you needed a massage, a pedicure, a shot of whiskey, a diaper, a AA battery, all you had to do was ask someone and they gave it to you in exchange for something, even if it was simply a hug. this place was fodder for a communist revolution, even though admission cost over $300.
The art installations and cars were the best. I am still blown away by the amount of time and resources tht people put into their creations. Sharks, spaceships, cupcakes, sandcastles, and house sections rolled by all day long. Everyone else traveled via cartwheel. It was like watching a disorienting movie--I had to close my eyes so that I wouldn't pass out from dizziness...and dust overload. A 90-year-old former lamplighter replied to my camp-mate's advice--"be good"--by saying "No. Don't be good. Get some on you!" So he did.
There were camps offered everything: solar-powered popsicle stand, sensual rope tying, to seminars on quantum physics, glitter outfitters, geology lessons about the Black Rock Desert, ultramarathons (50k!), oxyacetylene welding, bicycle repair, dildo fencing, a "Louisiana Purchase Interpretive Dance Reenactment," polyrhythm workshops (for training your body to maintain two separate pulses simultaneously), slave auctions, short term weddings/divorces, zip lines, bluegrass jams, "Madonnapocolypse," feasts while blindfolded, and perhaps my favorite: "German Sparkle Party: rubber boots and party pants, do you like to party? I like to party!"

Radio art car. Faaaaantastic.

Ship art car. Yar!

Silver surfer? On a sand-jet ski.

Playa dust everywhere!

Desert island art car

I thought about busting out my packet of Mystical Fire that I had brought from Texas and that had protected me along the way thus far, but 1) I still had a long way to go; and, 2) At burning man, bringing out Mystical Fire would be like holding a sparkler next to the sun. I decided to save it for later.

???

There was only one unfortunate incident, but it's really funny now that I recall it. Zac and I were doing some daytime exploration and happened upon a cowboy bar. We parked our bikes and made for the bar. We were stopped by a half-naked woman riding a dog/machine thing which was moving erratically (we later found out that it was remote-contolled). The woman got off. We turned around when we noticed that the water truck was passing by. Water trucks spray the camp roads to keep the dust from getting way out of control. The water truck also doubles as a shower. So, whenever the water truck rolls by, you can bet that a crowd in varying states of nakedness will be following behind it. Zac ran after it and returned to the bikes. A completely nude hippie guy carrying his dreadlock-bandana was following the truck. Zac and I both watched as he scampered by, hypnotized...I couldn't look away--he had the most pendulous man-parts I had ever seen (which isn't really saying that much, I guess). It was like watching the parts on a bull flailing around at a rodeo. He finished his shower and walked by us. The remote-controlled dog came up behind him and "bit" his ass, which was hilarious, so Zac and I both laughed. He whipped around and, thinking that the ass-biting had something to do with us, cracked Zac in the head with his wet dreadlock-bandana. Holy shit! I'd never seen such an angry hippie! Not cool man, not cool.

Zac riding through a "white-out" (dust storm)

The most impressive installation was a ~60 foot tall intricate beautiful temple, constructed to hold hundreds of people and with detailed, carved decorative panels. Inside, hundreds of synchronized (via strings and wizardry) bells and gongs made a mesmerizing sound that I listened two for a good part of an afternoon. I can't find a photo of it, for some reason. They ended up burning it on the Sunday of the festival.
At night, the festival cranked up the volume, visually and audibly. LED's and music flooded every inch of the festival grounds. A group of us ventured out and happened upon a real live Thunderdome! The battles were downright violent! Bloody even. It was fantastic.

Thunderdome!: Two men enter, one man leaves 

Awesome, color-changing lighted tree

Schwengel, this one's for you!

The video is someone's hot air balloon ride over the festival. It shows the size of the festival as well as the temple.


Dueling campfires - sorry video won't imbed



One night, Michelle and I ventured out to the desolate part of the playa and happened upon a movie theater that had been constructed. We entered and watched a good portion of Sullivan's Travels. What a trip. I'm getting overstimulated recalling the details. I could start an entirely separate blog about just the festival.

A movie theater in the middle of BFE!

I stayed two nights on the couches in our camp. Both mornings, I was awoken in very awesome ways. On the first morning, a vehicle resembling something out of The Road Warrior (sense the Mad Max theme here?) roared by blasting AC/DC song "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap." It was a wonderful way to start the day.
The second morning, a naked hippie girl had climbed to the top of our camp tower, still high on whatever she had last night, and belted out Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart." (Weird. The coffee shop I'm sitting in right now just started playing this song...very weird). I would have been really annoyed by this naked nymph, but her rendition of Janis Joplin's voice was PERFECT. I was in awe. As I sat up and wiped the granola from the corners of my eyes, I saw the most awesome sight of my time at Burning Man: a midget/dwarf/little couple rolled by on two miniature Segways!!! Holy fucking awesome! I wiped my eyes again and wondered if I had really seen that. I looked over at my camp-mate and we burst into laughter. That was the day I reluctantly left. I knew that if I stayed much longer that I would freak out from all the stimulation and people--I do not have long-term crowd tolerance. Plus, I had lots more of the country to see. Marc had bedazzled my bike with stick-on decals that he created. It was the perfect regalia for heading out from the festival.

Departure on my freshly bedazzled bike

But not before a photo-op with Mr. Amazing

 That day, Day 16, would turn out to be a very long one, indeed.

Santa Cruz, CA to San Francisco, CA

Day 10 - Santa Cruz, CA (continued)

As I was rolling into Santa Cruz, my bike kept misfiring. I thought it was running out of gas, so I switched the petcock to reserve. The bike continued to buck. Was it the spark plugs? It was cold and foggy and I did not want to be stranded on the side of Hwy 101. I treated the bike gently and rode the additional 15 miles to Santa Cruz to my friend Spencer's house. He is a friend of a friend in Austin. All I knew was that he was a winemaker, he lived in Santa Cruz, and he had dinner waiting for me. I walked in the door and I immediately felt at home. His housemates Paul and Eva and his girlfriend Annah were sitting around the table drinking some Zinfandel that Spencer had crafted. I munched on some home-cooked nosh and learned that there were two microbiologists and a ecology postdoc. We chatted at length about carbon buckyballs, aggressive yeast, gay-colored laboratory marking tape, facial cancer of Tasmanian devils, protein folding, and other nerdy indulgences. These were some fine folks.

One of Spencer's yummy creations

The next morning, I met Spencer at the Bargetto Winery and got the full tour. I learned than I could have imagined about the winemaking process, from the incorporation of the flavor of the grape skins, to temperature and pH regulation, to fermentation controls, to oak barrel aging, to bottling/labeling, to microclimates suited to different types of grapes, to alcohol content vs taxation, to migrant worker issues, I got the full scoop. The summer had been cold and wet, so Spencer had yet to begin the 2011 harvest. I was a little dissapointed that I didn't get to smash grapes with my feet. They have big ass machines to do that now anyway. I learned about olallieberries, which are 1/2 blackberry, 1/4 raspberry, and 1/4 Texas dewberry. Bargetto uses them to make a dessert wine. 

Fun with confined spaces

Jolly Spencer with a cap punch down tool

Glycol jacket for fermentation tanks

Spencer and I with some white oak barrels full o' wine

Spencer using fancy descriptive wine words

 Then it was back to business. I put a half quart of oil into the engine. The oil level was curiously low. Oil color: marmot pelt. I changed the plugs, which looked very tired at this point. Then, it was off to San Francisco.

Time for new spark plugs

The road to San Fransisco was incredible. Winding roads through redwoods, along the coast, in and out of fog. I took a spur road, CA State Route 236, and it was the best road yet. 1st and 2nd gear turns through redwoods and very little traffic. On more than a few occasions, slow moving vehicles slowed down and waved me by. They understood the joy of motorcycle riding without being held up for 20 miles behind an RV on a twisty road. The good thing about a motorcycle is that I can sneak by in the same lane or on the double yellow lines. As I passed a slow-moving RV that was painted with flowers and displayed a "HUG GURU" license plate, I was given the hang loose hand sign from the driver's window. Groovy.

Another motorcycle glamor shot along CA State Route 35

 Well, I had a little too much fun playing around in the redwoods. It started to get dark. No problem...except that with dark comes fog and wind, especially in the San Fran bay area. The last 15 miles took as long as the first 60. The road was winding and steep and the fog created visibility of only about 20 feet. Mist and fog is much worse than rain. Rain hits my helmet visor and sheds off. Mist creates a semi-transparent coating that has to be wiped off every 3 seconds. I ended up riding with my visor open and getting a face full of cold and wet for about an hour. It certainly kept me alert. I was surprised by how quickly I entered SF. Being a large world city, I had anticipated it taking an hour to get to my friend's place on Haight St. But all of a sudden, I was there. Luckily, my friend Jeff lives on one of the very few streets having less than an 18% grade.

I was thankful that I did not have to park here.

Motorcycle parking spaces: genius

 I parked the bike right in the middle of Friday night Haight St bar district hysteria around 10 pm. Having been tense from fear of dying by blasting off of a coastal cliff for the past hour and having not spoken in several hours, when Jeff met me, I could not, for the life of me, kick the verbal part of my brain into action. It's like I opened my mouth and alphabet soup fell out of my face and onto the ground. He was able to translate my arm flailing and jerky movements and helped me carry my gear into his swanky flat. I parked my motorcycle in a nifty motorcycle parking space (San Fran, you are a genius) and headed out with Jeff for food and drink. Jeff is great. He is a musician, grammar nazi/English teacher, and professional joker. He has a face that was designed for smiling and it was exactly what I needed after the last hellish hour of riding. He is my everything bagel. We got some yummy Thai food and proceeded to get trashed. Sake and whiskey on Haight Street--what a riot. It was a night of blissful indulgence, beatific bumfuzzlement, and proper introductions to San Fran.

Sake it to me

Day 11-12 - San Francisco

Jeff had to teach English SAT prep all weekend, so I was set free to explore the city. My head was as foggy as the sky that Saturday morning, on account of the boozy night prior, so I sat for about an hour and watched the beautiful flow of people and vehicles from the second story corner window on Haight and Pierce. I saw drama unfold between couples, a skateboarder wipe out and cause a crowd to gather around, a person with a briefcase and a giant frilly pink hat commuting to work on a skate/scooter thing, a rastafarian carrying a parasol and singing (the second rasta-man with a parasol I've seen on this trip...trend?), a team of men moving furniture, about 300 buses, and a gaggle of tourists taking photos of the Haight St sign. I tuned into the pulse of the city. What a wonderful city San Fran is to watch and explore. It is my new favorite. I found a farmers market and was blown away by the quality, variety, and value of the offerings. Berries for $2/pint, beautiful perfect heirloom tomatoes for $2/lb, etc. It put Austin's farmers markets to shame (the cracked, leaky heirloom tomatoes for $7/lb are a joke). It helps to be near a Mediterranean climate, where everything grows well without much input.

San Fran has some of the best farmers markets I've ever seen

The persistent fog lasted about as long as the fog in my brain. I biked across town to the North Beach area, fueled by top notch espresso, and inquired about having a pair of custom-made motorcycle boots made by Al's Attire. I stopped in a deli in Little Italy for a sandwich and more espresso. One of my personal goals for this trip was to wean myself off of caffeine. So much for that.

So. much. espresso...gettin' gooned on the bean

California is interesting - with its flowery irrationality, its lighthearted beauty, and its vanity - all rolled up and tie-dyed. There were warthog, duck, and goat crossing signs along the roads. Instead of the familiar video rental/tanning salon combination stores of the great lakes states I grew up in, California had express sushi/psychic reading combination stores. Hoopty rides blasted Fleetwood Mac instead of gangster rap. California, San Fran in particular, with its fresh air and veggies, intoxicating good smells, and sunny attitudes--was starting to make me soft. I actually bought a lacey pink scarf. This is the first pink thing I have ever bought (except for that pink raincoat I bought in a pinch at REI--I eventually exchanged it....a year later...for a brown one--thanks REI, the gear rental store!). I started walking with a little more Gumby in my step, like shaggy from Scooby Doo. The timbre of my voice was drowning in rose water and I started holding my yeaaaahs and heeeeys. I felt like I was losing my edge. I knew that northern California would afford a more intensely distilled version of this softness. I fancied myself drinking chia seed-laden kombucha, getting fresh olallieberries from the farmers market and doing tai chi in the park. I braced myself and tapped back into my midwestern hard-assedness.
During a bike ride through Golden Gate Park, I stumbled upon the area where the rollerdancing kings and queens of the city strut their stuff. I was downright giddy. I started sweating and breathing a little faster, even though it was 60 degrees. See, rollerdancing is what I envision myself doing when I grow up. I am obsessed with it. And these funky folks were masters of the art. I sat and watched them for about an hour. Check it out.

I checked out the Haight-Ashbury area just for grins. I didn't know what to expect, but I was dissapointed with what I found. Just a bunch of wannabe hippie beggars, trustafarians, people selling "incense" on the street, tourists, and head shops. No more free expression--just t-shirts with free expression slogans screenprinted on them for sale. It was evident: instead of weed being just a catalyst for the creative, it had become the primary focus. The district had become a caricature of itself. I did see a bus that looked like it had ridden right out of the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, but nothing original. Oh well. That's postmodernism for ya.  

Grillz

San Francisco was having its improv festival that weekend, so Jeff and I saw a show with Tim Meadows as the headliner, followed by a jaunt in the Mission District for some drinks. The fog that night was intense and creepy. It was Edgar-Allan-Poe-in-a-graveyard-on-Christmas-Eve kind of creepy fog. One can see it descend into the streets like some sort of demon tear gas. But I learned to love it. Jeff and I strolled around in it for hours. San Fran is a good city for chooglin' around town. By Monday morning, after two full days of non-riding, I was anxious to get on the road. After a lazy breakfast with Jeff, I was on the road toward Black Rock City.
Stay tuned to hear about a drunk racist I stayed with in South Lake Tahoe...