Road Trip '08 Ch. 1: Escape From L.A.

As I sat in my apartment hours before leaving on a road trip I'd been planning and drooling with anticipation over for months, I faced a crisis of conscious: Can I put down my Guitar Hero controller long enough to head out on the road?
My crew and I would literally riding up and down the Golden State for nearly four days, logging a total of 1000 miles and change on our bikes. Sounds great and all, but I'm never going to beat 3's & 7's by Queens of the Stone Age if I go on a four-day hiatus from Guitar Hero, my newest obsession and a game more addicting than candy-flavored heroin.
Fortunately, I had, to quote Jules Winfield, what alcoholics call a moment of clarity, packed up a few changes of underwear and hit the tarmac. Last year's road trip -- Another grand tour of California that took me as far North as San Francisco over five days -- gave me a taste for travelling on two wheels, and now I'm dying for some more.
Damian, a co-worker and fellow survivor of the '07 odyssey, is back again this year. He recently traded in a late-model Triumph Bonneville Speedmaster that was neither speedy nor masterful and often left him stranded on the side of the road for a rugged Kawasaki KLR650 that looks like it could go through Hell and back on a single tank. The thin motocross seat, however, leaves Damian wondering aloud if his ass will fare as well.
This year's rookie is John, a.k.a. the Respiratory Ninja. I gave him the name because of his propensity for appearing to deliver a breathing treatment to a lunger in the ER, then disappearing again just as quickly before anyone has a chance to page him for help. The Ninja rides an exotic Ducati Monster that's sexy as Hell and sounds like a pit bull on steroids but starts to resemble a torture rack when its rider is told he has to ride 300 miles a day bent over the gas tank.
My beloved blue Kawi Z750 was rejuvinated in the days leading up to Sunday's departure by a transfusion of the essential motor fluids and a high-performance K&N air filter that has it screaming like a banshee above 6,000 RPM. I was pleasantly surprised when, fresh from Kolbe Cycles, the scenery got real blurry as I grabbed a handful of throttle entering the 101. My boy was definitely ready to devour some pavement.

Missing in action is Scott, yet another coworker who was the brains of our operation. Last year he meticulously planned the ride down to the last detail, ensuring we always wound up on a little-traveled windy back road that begged to be carved on a motorcycle. A newborn is keeping him at home this year, and pretty much ensures that we will get lost and wind up somewhere in Nevada.
As I predicted, we hit our first snag Saturday night before we even logged a single mile. Damian with news of a weather report that called for snow on the 395, which we planned to take for a couple hundred miles through the Sierras before landing in Yosemite National Park's back porch.
As I headed to the New Bev to catch another Saturday midnight masterpiece (One word: PAHOO), Damian glommed together another route that would take us straight through California's seemingly endless miles of cow-crap-scented farmland to Merced, a slightly larger dot in a string of tiny ones that line Interstate 5.
GOOD NEWS: We won't get snowed on.
BAD NEWS: The road is long, straight, offers absolutely nothing that would even remotely be considered interesting and, as I mentioned a paragraph ago, smells like cow crap.
So, with dark, angry-looking clouds dominating the sky and threatening to dump on us at any given moment, we left the friendly confines of the 818 for a long day of sledding. Fortunately, it did nothing more than trickle during our 200-mile odyssey, but that didn't deter John from bundling up like he was trying to reach the North Pole. The Ninja resembled Randy from the epic A Christmas Story as he donned a bright blue rain suit on top of a thick leather Alpinestars jacket on top of a sweat shirt on top of a short-sleeved shirt on top of a long-sleeved shirt. He completed the dog-sled driver ensemble with a hood beneath his beanie beneath his helmet. The crowning achievement came during our first fuel stop out in the middle of nowhere when he emerged from the gas station's convenience store grinning from ear to ear and holding his hands in front of his face for Damian and I to inspect.

"They sell mittens!" he happily proclaimed. His hands now sported a pair of white woolen gloves that made him look a little like an Asian Mickey Mouse. Who knew you could buy so much happiness for $1.50 in a cowtown Gas & Sip?
We landed in Merced cold, wet and starving, but still amped from the exhiliration hours of high-speed riding bring. We got through the hours of rain completely unscathed, which is more than we can say for the bottom half of John's Smurf suit.

Hours of high-velocity travel shredded the pants, which gave 'em kind of a cool, psychadelic-era fringe effect. He didnt agree and promptly filed them in the hotel dumpster.
We had to get squared away before going on a hunting and gathering mission, and were dismayed when we surveyed our sleeping arrangement.

Two beds and a rollaway cot lined up to form one megabed that will allow three grown-ass men to sleep shoulder-to-shoulder. Apparently, Damian neglected to mention that he booked us the Brokeback Suite.
We followed the first rule of the road trip -- Whenever possible, sample the local culture by passing over the big chains to grub at mom & pop restaurants -- and hit up a local barbecue joint that had good fish tacos and huge freakin' beers.

But even better than the provisions was the mascot standing guard at the front door. I seized the oppotunity to correct years of shame that my Harley-owning family members have felt about yours truly buying a Japanese bike and took a ride on a huge Hawg.

Tomorrow is shaping up to be a bit more eventful as backtrack a little toward Yosemite to hit some of the tasty roads leading out of the park before doing a U-Turn and heading West to Half Moon Bay. I fell in love with Yosemite last year, and even though we're too pressed for time to head into the park, the area surrounding it is also beautiful and featured a couple of pristine bits of Tarmac that I can't wait to shred.
And who knows what other treasures will be unearthed at the area convenience stores?

PLAYLIST
Metallica - Black Album, Master of Puppets, Ride The Lightning

DAY ONE STATISTICS
1: Pairs of fuzzy white gloves purchased.
4: Estimated average miles you can travel through the Central Valley without passing a roadside sign pimping nut growers, a local nut store or some nut-related attraction.
0: Number of nut-related attractions we stopped for.
1: Number of towns passed named Chowchilla. If you think that's not worth noting, say "Chowchilla" out loud to yourself a couple times, and overenunciate the "Ow" and "Chilla."
1: Number of roads passed named Sandy Mush Road. Also fun to say aloud, but it also made me wonder if it was named after a patch of sand or in honor of a local woman named Sandy Mush.