We like to tent close together …
Funny how I never feel more at home than when I’m leaving it. Or at least leaving (for me) the emotionally complicated confines of Southern California, where this minor character was born and raised. Preferably by my dear old escape route: Highway 1 North along the coast.
Friday had been a desperate dash west from southern Utah, shedding clothes, crossing the desert — followed by a wonderful weekend with SoCal friends and family. A resupply at REI. A last sentimental glance at the old family home … then onward and upward, compass wise.
Highway 1 from Long Beach to Santa Monica is a jungle of stop lights, so it makes more sense to take the 405-North around it. But that meant briefly joining L.A. commuters in their early Monday morning freeway traffic, which inevitably rolls to a standstill, even in the carpoolers’ express lane, where motorcyclists are welcome.
When that happens, California law allows motorbikes to “thread the needle” between lanes. I’ve always been reluctant to join in, suspicious that some large vehicle might suddenly decide to change lanes and take me with it. But the double-yellow line between the express lane and the lane to the right (which theoretically prevents cars from crossing it until the next exit) beckoned. And after about 15 minutes at 5 mph, I joined the other needle-threaders at 25.
Once you reach the coast in Santa Monica, however, everything changes. All the Malibu bunch heading south and east to work are bumper to bumper, while you, heading north, enjoy a free and open road, and the sky is blue and the sun shines. I’ve always felt better traveling from Santa Monica to Santa Barbara to San Luis Obispo. But once I get north of Morro Bay, the real magic happens. Especially in the off-season months of April or October. Especially on a motorcycle.
There’s a campsite I like in San Simeon. Then a beach further north where elephant seals haul out after their long migration from the Gulf of Alaska. Then comes the gently undulating rise and fall of the Big Sur country, the loveliest road I know …
Travels with Harley 
George, your guest room in Pacific Grove is available. Are you coming by? — Mark
Mark, buddy — thanks for the very kind offer. I would have — gladly and thankfully — but I was racing to get to SF for the start of the sixth game of the World Series. Unfortunately, the game was already out of reach for the Giants by the time I arrived, so the big rush was for naught. Serves me right. It’s bad karma to pass by dear old friends on a road trip. I won’t do it again. : – )