101: Post-party and post-trip thoughts (Nick)

Good night's sleep and brekky, then following Saurus  (that's Roger by the way) into Santa Monica to returnhu Big Soph and Manfred to Eagle Riders. All ok apart from the Eagle office in Santa Monica being closed. Note on door saying "Sorry, we're closed for Memorial Day. Return bikes to LAX (airport)." We just made it back to Woogs' and Saurus' place in time for a party thrown in.

My impression of Malibu is a beachfront with substantial properties here and there, below a large group of dessicated hills, wth the occasional palace perched on the top or round the sides, to grab views of the boundless Pacific. Woogs' and Saurus' place is on the side of a hill high up, and beautiful inside and out, with a wide balcony overlooking the ocean through palms. It is open plan and a wander from one distinct area to another, but without doors.Before the guests started to arrive Saurus had time to describe his neighbours in their distant habitats.

"Over there's the house of Nicole Scherzinge (a famous singer I hadn't heard of).That's Laird Hamilton's place (No.1 Surfer in the world). That place on the far corner of the mountain is where Glen Campbell lives. Unfortunately he now has Alzheimer's, so he doesn't go out much. Over there (Roger pointed to a large spread on the left about 3/4 mile away) is Axel Rose." Axel Rose, I asked, isn't he the Rock Musician who performs on stage in his underpants? Roger wasn't sure but told me that when Axel practises, the house shakes and he has to raise his voice in the kitchen. On another occasion Saurus pointed out other near neighbours on the Pacific Coast Highway (the PCH, aka our old friend H101): the pads of Cher, Mel Gibson, bruce Willis, Barbara  Streissand.... the list is endless.

So, the party. Enormous fun with wine flowing like the Yosemite Falls. Again. I met some neighbours, well one or two. It turns out that with the exception of Woogs and Saurus, they don't know anyone else in the neighbourhood - except by repute - either. Was this an obsession with privacy, a fear of strangers or some kind of weird bi-product of affluence - an indifference to local people and issues? 

I suggested to Bruce Ochmanek, a film producer who lived down the road, that Axel Rose might be lonely: why didn't we drop in on him that evening and talk about good old England? Bruce was certain that it was a bad idea. Axel, if he was at home, and he probably wasn't, would send a flunky to the door instructed to "Tell them NO". It would be a wasted effort.

After the party my mind was looking back at the days spent on the road. I had my note book with me and these are some of the things I jotted down that managed to get through the Censor

Roads

Fast dual carriageway freeways, or huge interstates, or in contrast slender, windy ribbons with the carriageway divided by double yellow lines. There are variable speed limits around towns and in cities, as well as some country roads, that are generally observed by Californians.We saw why this may be as a CHIP patrolman was doling out speed tickets to a man who could have been exceeding the speed limit by as little as 3mph, and required to cough up hundreds of dollars.

Americans do not like roundabouts. Instead they have four-way junctions with traffic lights at which all cars NSE or W have to stop. We worked out that it was basicallly first come, first served, but in practice it was a courtesy examination. After you. No, after you. 

We drove many mountain areas where the roads were narrow and sometimes curved round tightly, this way and that continuously. It was not unusual to come across a sqiggly bend sign with the legend beneath, 'for 40 miles'. Over my intercom, I would predictably hear J make some sort of rejoicing noise, whereas for Big Soph and I, the words, 'interesting times ahead' were more apt. On such stretches, the roads requiring any maximum speed info were marked with a numerical warning. Every now and then I misjudged the curve and Big Soph would end up on the wrong side of the road, fortunately with no evil consequences. 

The Yanks

Whether it was WA, OR or Calif, our cousins across the pond were without exception counteous, welcoming and as helpful as they could be. This was particularly important to a couple of travellers in a strange land often short of needed information on routes, addresses or accommodation. The other day I was standing by the roadside at a gas station looking at a map. A hispanic Californian middle-aged lady mistook my frowning concentration for bemusment, approached me and told me where I was, the name of the road and how far it was to San Francisco. We had just driven from SF but never mind. There is a wonderful sense of hospitality in the air. The ancient Greek God Xenia is alive  and well and living on the west coast of the USA. 

The Bikes

J's BMW was, I think, everything he hoped it would be in terms of performance and reliability. He didn't complain about discomfort over long distances, although I suspect that the bike is not designed for the distances we were doing every day. Whereas Big Soph, with a capacity of  about 1700cc (or an exact 103 cubic inches) was a heavy, well sprung touring bike built for long hauls and predominantly main roads. Her six gears were well differentiated and very useful for controlling speeds on steep descents, reducing the need for braking. She couldn't lean too far over on steep bends without scraping some of her undercarriage ( elicting much praise from J). A solid, reliable touring bike with good torque at low revs and as thirsty as a car. 

Sent from Samsung Mobile

101: misc LA pics

Rocks extend artfully through the edge of a (temporarily dry) water feature at the Getty Museum in LA

Pretty flowers. California is super fertile and boasts many glorious flowers of which, to our shame, we knew hardly any names. 

Flying angels in a Santa Monica tourist shop 

Bigging up the shopping

Living the Dream, revisited (Jony)

A lifetime ago, in a momentary gap in negotiations with Seattle about Nick's wobbling bottom, I apparently exhorted him to press for a replacement on the grounds that '...this is the trip of a lifetime: you can't have a bike that's less than perfect.'

Well, now it's just about over, how did the TOAL shape up? On the face of it, driving down some safely tarmaced roads in a country that more or less speaks your langage with a reassuring wodge of credit cards in one's back pocket doesn't obviously contain all the elements of deprivation and life-threatening challenge that make up yer typical odyssey. However, against that must be set the undeniable fact that travelling with Nick involves a large element of uncertainty and, like Don Quixote before him, one never knows when adventure will strike.

On our first day out of Seattle, you will remember that the Don and Big Sophie assumed a horizontal position together, It was the work of a moment's inattention and, afterwards, I was keen to find out what happened. 'Well, I was struggling to see the satnav through these sunglasses and didn't spot the gravel' said he by way of explanation. Our helmets both have an inbuilt (and very effective) sun visor, so I asked why he was wearing shades rather than use this. 'Oh I can't see through that visor properly,' came the rather puzzling reply. Some hours later I heard a rather sheepish voice through the intercom admitting that vision was much improved since he had just removed the protective film that had been stuck on the visor since he had bought it...about nine months before!

Roger has been gently quizzing us to come clean on 'the best bits' and we're both agreed that Yosemite was the most dramatic, memorable bit of scenery of our trip. That will certainly stay with me but so will the whole experience of travelling with Nick: seeing how he effortlessly breezes through the most awkward and difficult scrapes, armed with nothing more than a wodge of cash and bags of natural charm has been a continual source of amazement and amusement.

Of course, travelling with Nick has also been a pain in the arse: particularly his annoying habit of getting into awkward scrapes in the first place, not to mention his super-cautious riding, his selective hearing and his constant quest to meet up with his fellow human beings of whatever background, rev them up a bit, and generally shoot the breeze - all these have ensured that the past two weeks have not contained a dull moment.

A second example. Somewhere in northern California, we encountered a giant Sequoia one could drive through. Hundreds of tourists do it every day. We did too. But having taken the picture, Nick prepared to depart and, in the nanosecond while my attention was elsewhere, he managed to lose his glove. Five times a day I am faced with this highly paid, successful professional anxiously tearing apart his luggage to find his phone, his glasses, his satnav. Had it a second ago; now it's completely disappeared etc. On this memorable occasion, I saw a slightly absurd figure wandered towards me across the car park, helmet and one glove on, angrily complaining that his other bloody glove had gone missing. There had been a pack of Japanese tourists who were photographing everything in sight and I assumed he had been hamming it up for them. But no. He genuinely did not realise that the missing glove was sitting on top of his head, neatly balanced on his helmet! I wish I'd had my camera to hand!

In a couple of days we will be heading back to the UK, putting some lovely people, the Big Sur, the PCH, Highways 101 & 1 and the mighty Half Dome of Yosemite behind us. Together they've been awesome, challenging, occasionally uncomfortable and often fun. But, however good the american scenery and however friendly the natives, the good news is that more fun lies ahead.

End of the road pic

Arrival at Malibu (Nick & Jony)

Sunday 25th May

We set off early from Atascadero, trusting the position of the sun
and a good old map, rather than the SATNAV. The Pacific coast on our
right was beautiful and, perhaps because it was a Sunday, the beaches
were popular, with cars parked along the side of the road and surfers
paddling out. Big Soph was chortling along contentedly singing her
potato song. The Beach Boys were singing Surfin' Safari in my crash
helmet. At Santa Monica we checked our position on what was now known
as the Pacific Coast Highway, and phoned Woogs. We were an hour from
Malibu. Time to give the SATNAV one last chance.

The SATNAV found Latigo Canyon Road, a small turning off the highway
on the coast into the hills. The road twists and turns in on itself as
it gains height rapidly. We sailed past Woogs' gates and hurtled on.
After two phone calls, a double back and Woogs waving her arms
standing in the middle of the road we finally found the place. Over
the gates was the notice "Neek and Jony WELCOME". And welcomed we
were, with Woogs, Roger-saurus, Lois and Sammy all grinning like
Cheshirecats outside. So, more than 2,000 miles later, we had at last
made it.

We had a joyful lunch of Pizza and wine, and carried on nattering into
the evening. At about 5 we were shown to our beds and with the
warning ringing in our ears that supper would be in two hours, fell
into a deep sleep, waking up 5 hours later. Read some Trollope, and
slept a further five hours


LA = Lots of Alcohol (Jony)
Roger and Natasha - Nick's sister in law -aka Saurus and Woogs, live in a biker's Valhalla, up a wonderfully winding road off Malibu Beach. Pics of their sad little pad will follow when my hand is steady enough to take them for our arrival was the occasion for the opening of many bottles and much celebration. I do not recall how or when I retired from the fray but woke briefly with the proverbial parrot's cage mouth at 10.00pm to find that everyone had either gone to bed or gone out to continue the party with the neighbours who apparently include Cher and that Axel from Guns 'n Roses. No I can't remember anything he did either but, to judge from his pad, it must have sold a few.

In which Dr N disappears (Assorted scribes)

Awoke at 6.00 betimes. Dr N's temper as foul as his breath: he claims this is due to having had a poor night's sleep and having eaten of garlick. But which of us lay all night on the floor, after a confusion about our lodging, and which lay in a grand bed? Dear Reader, you know the answer to that question.

Our steeds - Santa Sophia and my sprightly Hermann - were soon laden with our bags and, once again, we pointed their noses towards the sea and began our travels. As usual, Sophia proceeded with reluctance, laden as she was with Dr N's portable wine cellar, while Hermann was keener to explore and had to be restrained. I have litel of import to relate other than that he is now LOST! Again! I turned my head but a moment to regard some passing doxy but it was sufficient for the good Dr N to vanish, as if by magick! By all the saints, for a man of undoubted learning and wisdom, he has a mighty slight grasp on his place in the world.

Yet is it not often so? Only a week past, we met with two other travellers on life's path. Hispanic of origin. The one was a aged knight, with a grand bearing and his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon - or perchance even beyond it. He was of stoic mien, much loving of ancient histories and their interminable telling - in which, it seemed to me, had common blood with my own Dr N. His companion, by contrast with my good self, was a sorry figure, carrying a satchel of maps, scraps of paper, ink - the wherewithall of a scribe's daily life. For it was his fate in life - as mine - to record the musings, the adventures, the fantastikal events into which the Don (for so he was called) transmogrified the daily dross of their lives.

Ye Gods, Senor Panza and myself are perhaps two of a kinde after all! For did not Dr N, only yesterday, ascend a local waterfall of this region. Twas barely worth the name of a stream, such as we have oft crossed on our travels in bonny Scotland. Yet mi Lord bade me set down in my diary that we had climbed as if into the heavens. 'It was a mountain, man' says he, 'Write that the waterfall that gushed from its top, was the like of which was never yet seen in auld Englande.' Or some such tosh - for he is capable of transports of delight when the mood is on him, as my aching fingers will confirm.

But since he is still lost, it may be that my fingers will find some rest tonight...and perhaps some other occupation. Methinks what pleasure may be had with the doxys of this region? I shall seek a glass or two of porter and a beef pie before setting out to seek what may be found. Until then I remain your humble servant and eternal scribe, James Boswell.



Chaos (Nick's version)

We were away from Yosemiteby 0815. Our aim was to cover as many miles
as we could through boring country back to the Pacific coast, so that
we could be within easy reach of Malibu the following day. I had an
additional objective, to check into a motel with civilised amenities
like a bathroom, where you didn't need to hide your toothbrush in a
bearbox.

We were heading South down Route 41, fasdt and boring stretching over
flat and scorched farmland, stopping for coffee and fuel. J overtook a
line of traffic and pressed on ahead. He knew that I was on the look
out for a place to stop for lunch. We had an important turn ahead at a
place called Shandon, to head for a place called Atascadero. J was
well ahead when he spotted a good place to stop. But he signaled to me
after I had zoomed past and I was unable to turn back. J said over the
intercom no worries, catch you up.

I was following the SATNAV, which ignored the turning L that we had
agreed to take. It took me a further 15 miles before I became
concerned about J not coming up behind me. It didn't help that my
mobile phone was flat (unable to charge it properly in Yosemite). I
also noticed that the R turn indicated on the SATNAV was an
alternative route, a later turn, to our agreed plan. So why had J not
appeared? I stopped and waited 15 mins. Nothing. He could have taken
the earlier turn, but there were other possibilities that would
require some sort of input from me that I had to consider, which were
in order of likelihood:
(1) J's bike had failed. He was at the side of the road getting his
hands dirty
(2) J had been arrested and was cooli8ng his heels in some
Sherriff's office, wondering where his criminal lawyer was, or
(3) J had had an accident.

I decided I had to go back to the place that J had found, if only to
discount the more worrying possibilities. No news. No sign. There was
nothing else for it but to get to Atascadero and our default meeting
place "the gas station in Atascadero". I followed the SATNAV which
again ignored the turn off onto H101, but which at least turned South
to Atascadero the longer route. Unfortunately the place randomly
selected in Atascaderoturned out to be on the North bound lane of
H101! I was wasting time. I found Atascadero eventually and made my
way to the default rendez -vous.

Two problems with this, none easy to foresee. The first was my flat
mobile phone. I was incommunicado until I could get it recharged. The
second was that, as I was to find out, Atascaderowas a three horse
town, boasting at least 5 gas stations, none of which had seen an
English biker wearing a yellow crash helmet.

After combing the streets of Atascaderochecking out the forecourts, I
found a good Motel. The manageress was an Asian lady who had emigrated
with her family from Luton5 years before. She is the only person I
have ever met with fond memories of Luton. She allowed me use of her
phone. I got through to Woogs at Malibu. She had received an email
from J. Thank God he was safe, and in no need of mechanics,
osteo-surgeons or criminal lawyers. He was looking for a motel. Woogs
would email him and tell him to stop looking and scoot over. I then
booked a twin double that was the last vacancy of the place, which was
most luxurious and spacious. Of course it didn't have a bearbox but
you can't have everything. After an hour or so my phone was
sufficiently charged to receive texts. J was booked into a motel down
the road, and so I invited him round to mine for supper.

Next door on the other side of the swimming pool was a Mexican
restaurant and bar called "Que Passa?", which was perfect for our
reunion, and, I couldn't help thinking, I highly relevant question
for one of us to ask the other. We downed several lagers at the bar
and then had delicious Mexican food, always full of surprises (usually
good ones). We parted to our Motels after that, to rest before the
final stage of our adventures.

My last thought before falling asleep in my enormous palatial bed was
that I would never ever trust that SATNAV again with anything but the
simplest routes.

Yosemite rocks! (Nick)

We set off early for Yosemite. As we neared its elevations we could slowly make out the misty bumps in the far distance that grew and grew. We began to climb, and the road narrowed and became twistier, which of course made my companion happier. After paying $10 each admission, we were inside, a world of cascading steams, rivers, waterfalls that is the yosemite valley, which is surrounded by the most staggering mountains, almost sheer, for the most part clothed in trees, and above the tree line smooth granite caps, the highest more thn 5,000 feet above sea level.

We had arrived earl, about midday. We had booked a sort of canvass room/ framed tent to sleep in, but we couldn't book into it until 5 pm. Our plan was to find a place to leave our kit (a bear box: perfect!), surreptitiously change from biking clothes into suitable shorts, and then head off into the mountains equipped with Budweiser and sun cream.

J had chosen the walk, the Yosemite Falls. We could actually see them from the car park, a powerful gush of white water emerging from near the top of one of the highest peeks. I assumed that we would walk a quarter of the way up, say hello, take a snap or two and then nip down again in time for registration and refreshment.

We climbed all the way to the top. It was two hours up and two hours down. It was steep, very steep, the trail was an untidy, rocky mish-mash of large granite stones, sometimes covered with a thin film of light grit, which made the descent slippery. There will I hope be pics to go with this that can better describe the falls: a noisy, thunderous, powerful gush of water that had run its course to the edge of the summit and had nowhere else to go but down, hurtling in a cascading jumble of white foam. At the top we were able to get close to the start, along a precarious ledge, truly spectacular.

Coming down was slippy and hard because we were tired but needed to concentrate on our footing.. To keep our minds alert we revisited our Peterhead oil-rigging days and played 'When I went Shopping'. As the shopping list got longer, so the items purchased, as usual, became more unreal. American hikers passing us looked puzzled when they heard offerings such as '...a grizzly bear with all but one of its teeth extracted' or '...a 28 mm Vivitar lens'.

For once the American idiom has it right: awesome!

We made good use of mountain streams on the way up as well as down, but towards the bottom I was badly dehydrated. I fell in with a young man who came from SF, who gave me a spare bottle of water he had, as we exchanged habitats. He told me two pieces of news that I was not expecting:

(A) he was an Arsenal fan, and

(B) Arsenal won the FA Cup Final in a thrilling match against Hull by the skin of their teeth. I am neither an Arsenal fan nor a follower of football, but, as he nattered on, I forgave my companion. And so May 2014 was the year I got the result of the Cup Final coming down Yosemite Falls. 

Bus back to Cam Curry, registration and locating our canvas cabin, parking the bikes under the trees all followed. It  was rudimentary and only had one bed - a double. We showered and felt a bit better. Our limbs were creaking but over a beer and pizza, J told me that our steep ascent was a climb of over 2800ft. He also asked how I felt about being taken out of my comfort zone. Some things are best enjoyed in retrospect but I must say that, although it was tough, arriving at that summit and seeing the views on a clear sunny day made it one of the most enjoyable parts of the trip for me. 

Which is more than can be said for the ceiling. I slept badly because, by contrast with the days, the nights are really cold. I also was missing the part of my comfort zone that includes a bathroom within easy reach!. J slept on the floor (on his camping lilo) and apparently a bit better than I did. 

Trekking in SF (Nick)

Colourful fruits in Chinatown. This state is amazingly fertile. 

There are miles and miles of  carefully tilled and prepared fields, with lots of 

irrigation and signs of serious fruit and veg production - bit like the Fens but with more sunshine.

It's not gold and it's not a gate but pretty neat all the same.

Waking up at dawn, and fast-forwarding to the day ahead. Thinking ahead, I have come to realise, is an essential biking tool. If you do not give that 15 mph curve ahead on Highway 1 that is racing towards you some serious consideration before you are there, then may God have mercy upon you. And when it comes to curves, J's God is mightier than mine. However, if rumour is anything to go by, J's God is nothing to that of Charlie (J's younger son), who apparently sees no difference in his biking goggles between a straight line and a right angle.

But today for the first time in a week, the bikes and their riders were to have a rest day. Off we went from the hostel, J in khaki shorts and sandals; me in jeans and boots. I HAD packed some shorts by the way, but reading into the literature about gay SF I thought better of putting them on (they are pink and can wait for Malibu).

We strolled down to where the cable car begins, a short distance from O'Farrell and the hostel. These old cable cars run by the SF Municipal Railway are great fun. We were at the terminus, and so as these little carriages reached the end of the line they were pushed onto a turntable and pushed round to face the direction whence they had come.

Cable car being pull round on the turntable

Back to the SF end, we bussed back into town to our hostel: not to sleep another night there - thank God - but to ship out with all our bike loads of luggage down the road to another. This was better quality in all respects but one. This time our accomodation was on the sixth floor. Handling those stairs after tramping SF's streets, and carrying up our stuff was either an amusing challenge or a reason for failing entry into the SAS, depending on whether your name is J Russell or Nick Inge.

Fortunately Mr Cline came to the rescue with his 2010 Heritage Zinfandel, which was magnificent. It was only after J and I had a couple of glasses and felt a bit woozy that we investigated the label and saw that it was 15.5%. That limited our desire earlier expressed to paint the town red. The hostel was putting on a film in their theatre room downstairs, a feature film about SF starring Sean Connery and Nicholas Cage, and free pizza, which was generous.

We took them up on it. It was an action thriller with mad ex-generals commanding renegade commandos, Alcatraz tourists being held hostage, germ warfare, massive explosions and a few F111 jets just for the hell of it. I could have given you the entire plot near the start, although J tells me I slept through most of it. Somehow I made it back to the sixth floor where a deep sleep was waiting for me.

Assorted SF scenes

Looking down from Telegraph Hill towards the financial district

Rosie the Riveter!

Pics of wine tasting in the Sonoma Valley

Clein's storage area featuring giant French oak barrels and recherché chandeliers

Wine not indeed? We did.

Big Sur pic

Nick has written so much text that the typing pool has gone on strike! 

Here's a picture of the Big Sur instead.

Wot! No TOAL? (Jony)

I wish to apologise. My sins are many and manifold but, in the present context, they include the failure to write a series of coherent, interesting, witty diary entries that record how our Trip Of A Lifetime down the Pacific Coast Highway is moving from one mind-boggling highlight to another.

I doubt that Mrs E Trellis of North Wales (whom I take to be our audience) really wants to know what we had for breakfast yesterday or what tomorrow's landlady looks like. She wants wall-to-wall awesome panoramas of the Oregon coastline followed by mega-wow vistas of the Big Sur in which dirty laundry and coffee stops barely feature. Can't blame her really. After all, she can get laundry and coffee chat in Llandudno. However it's a sad fact that life on the road - the stuff that actually fills one's mind between 10.20 and 1.37 - is all too often about the grotty hostel where you left your phone charger or what the waitress at that café said. Sorry Mrs T.

Today was a good example. We left FortRoss and set off down the coastal highway for an hour or so before turning inland towards the wineries of Sonoma. The coastal views were pretty damn impressive and as usual I was bombing along, looking for thrills and spills among the winding bends, while Nick was steadily following in my wake, enjoying the oceanside scenery, quietly oblivious of the queue of cars forming behind him. Occasionally we would stop to enjoy the views; once I stopped to take a video of Nick's stately progress; sometimes we stopped to check the map and get some petrol. We were laughing the other day that we never stop to check out the botany: sorry about that girls!

And sorry too that our pictures are awful and our editorial discipline even worse. However I hope that we have, nevertheless, somehow conveyed just a bit of the majesty, the rugged beauty, the big open skies that have met us in this part of the world and helped refresh our spirits.

And, by the way, we have, somehow, now reached San Francisco. Stand by for Golden Gate photos.

Route 1 lives up to its name (Jony)

Today was one of our best for me in that - at last! - we came upon a proper biking road involving sharp bends, dips, hollows and the rest of that stuff which I have been sorely missing in this country of boring, rolling, endless 55mph roads.

It happened without any fanfare. Somewhere near the border of California and Oregon our route led us away from the legendary Route 101 on to a nonentity called, simply, Route 1. And suddenly everything changed. There was a wonderful, glorious little sign saying something like 'sharp unamerican bends for the next 22 miles'. And off we went - hurrah!

The official moniker for my bike is 'GS1200 Adventure'. Although this is perhaps more a marketing gambit, given the weighty teutonic nature of the beast, I have to report that it leapt willingly up the hills of Route 1 and we had a great sustained burst of cornering, to and fro, taking me back to happy days with Charlie in the Alps. Frankly riding a GS down 95% of the roads in America is like driving a Maserati in third gear: completely wasted and utterly frustrating. However, at last we were able to let go the leash (with a parting shot of 'Take care' from Nick in my headset) I went exploring. Fab!

What to say about Nick's riding on this section? First, Corinna would have been proud of him. Second, and to be charitable, the Harley isn't really designed for chucking about. It's ideal on the rolling open (spelt B L A N D) roads that seem to prevail in this country. That said, his skills and confidence (and, consequently, speed) are all gradually improving as the memory of that close encounter with a deer begins to fade and the warm Californian sun spreads its beneficence. I'm looking forward to having a go on big Sophie to see if she's as heavy as she appears.

Nick's version of the day's events follows but here's the Executive Summary of his thoughts about cornering:

"We all know what a bend is and roughly what to expect when we see a sign with that squiggle. Well, this section of Highway 1 was a constantly squiggly line with bends that were labelled with maximum speeds from 45mph down to 15mph. Experiencing them was an enormous challenge for me, and required 100% focus. it is not ideal Harley country: the bike is heavy and designed for geriatric curves and straight lines. Needles to say J's BMW was at its ruthlessly efficient best and I have no doubt that this will will be detailed with great relish in true Munich beer hall style."


Nick's unedited version in full (with apologies for my poor dictation speed typing)

Corners

Afrter a breakfast of cereal and coffee - Damion would have been horrified - J and I walked down the road called Avenue of the Giants - Miranda's only Main Street - and into a different world, a sort of hobbit half world where humans no longer mattered. All around us were these stupendous trees. So high you couldn't see the tops. Impossible to capture by camera any more than words. J walked round the largest - 26 paces. All as straight as telegraph poles and emanating their own special woody smell. We felt small as we emerged back on the AOTG, stopping off at Korbly Wood Products, the business of Bernie K "Make a good livin out of wood" who knew all about redwoods from whom we gathered a few 'not many people know thats', such as 1. the oldest, carbondated redwoods i nthe world are thought to be 2800 years old. 2. there is a max height of around 350 ft. 3. They are impervious to fire. Bernie would have given us a demo but was taliinga bout applying an oxy acteylyene torch to a trunk, that wouldn't so much go ouch!

Rejoined H101, trucking through redwood forests southwards, and still keeping to my resolution that Big Soph woul dnot be caught short again. This caused us to deviate at on epoint following signs to a small gas station. As I was swqueezing the lst drop into Soph's modest tank J discovered there was a spectacular redwood down the road which, for a few dollars, we could drive thru. Why not?

We followed signs and there it stood: the mightiest tree I have ever or will ever see. At least twice as thick as the granddad of earlier, and with a squarish tunnel. The whole place was overrun by japanese tourists , like a sort of reverse bonsai.

Back on H101, we were passing beautifal vistas on our own; huge seascapes of awesome emptiness. In my crashelmet I heard J say, 'This is what we came to see" and something like, '...one of your better ideas Nick'.

We were approaching the point where we would be saying farewell toH101, which continues south but away from the coast. Coastal progress is now taken over by Highway 1, which has a sort of bikers legend attached to it. As we turned on to H1 we saw signs saying SF 185 and more worryingly 'bends for 32 miles'.

We all know what a bend is and roughly what to expect when we see a sign with that squiggle. Well, the section of H1 was a constantly squiggly line with bends labelled with max speeds from 45 down to 15mph. Experiencing them was an enormous challenge for me, and required 100% focus. it is not ideal Harley country. the bike is heavy and designed for geriatric curves and straight lines. Needles to say J's BMW as at its ruthlessly efficient best and I have no doubt dthi will wilbe etileat itwith great reguoinglelshelwhwer in turye munich beer hall style.

By this time the bends were taking their toll and I was tiring. just as well that I spotted a vacancy sign swinging in the breeze on yet another viciousbenbd, the FortRoss hotel. I walked in and ,yes, we were welcome in a cabin lookiingover the pacifiic. The lady at reception was in her 60s, ghlasses, portly and dressed in an immaculatel ironed black uniform and black shiny shoes. To match this she somehow manaaged to ratle off five pages of info at us in about 20 seconds. The only part I tiredly took in was that our cabin had a stove with a supply of wood which we could use an dthere was more at £5 a load.

There was a deli acros the road that was about to close. Our SS receptionist told us that if we jangled our key she would make us some sarnies. We did this for redwod size sandwiches and antother bottle of sinffande.

After alll that you can be suyrew I didn't have anyting left. I hit the matress of myh queen zized bed and then theire is nothing.

Pics from somewhere in the trees

Slow slow quick quick slow (Nick)

Saturday 17th May. Newport Or.
The Harley won't be fixed until Rich wanders into work around 12. It will be a slow start. We met some of last night's truthtellers and liars at breakfast. Nat was going off on a sixty mile bicycle ride. We were welcome to join him? Was this true or false? We made our excuses.

We were allowed to leave our bags at the hotel for the day provided we cleared out of Steinbeck by 11. Deal! J and I took off along the strand known  as Nye Beach towards the lighthouse to the North, reminiscent of Mum's beach at Start in the South Hams. We talked about Scottish independence and the forthcoming vote, and, after BMW's, how an economics teacher at my old school had managed to teach a class of 14 year oldbaby-boomers how (from an economist's point of view) Germany had won the War. And so as we walked,  we "...Talked of many things

Of shoes and socks and sealing wax

And cabbages and kings"

And Big Sophie, of course. How were the spokes shaping up? I gave R & R a call at 1205, not wanting to rush Rich as he was walking into his shop. "He ain't in" said a voice from the workshop, "Suggest that you try in an hour." We phoned in an hour and a half. "Bike 'll be ready in an hour" said Rich. Good news. I wasn't certain that Big Soph was a curable patient.

We were hoping to spend the night at vsome motel or hostel in Coos Bay 130 or so miles South down R101. Everything for miles around was booked. This Saturday was some sort of regional festival. In Florence there would be a procession of girls holding flowers, or something. These activities were a huge draw. J was frustrated. The only place we could find was inland and far to the South in a place called Grant's Pass. Something called an Air Bed. Grants Pass was 200 miles away. A challenging objective.

We rejoined Big Sophie at around 2.30. Rich was reassuring. "She's good to go!" And go we did. Many of the spokes had been tightened up, particularly on the back wheel. Back to the hotel, to load up, and away South.

The route from Newport is a wonderful stretch of H101: magestic curves hugging the Pacific coastline. Every now and then J would get excited, pull in and switch on his camera, or alternatively overtake, bomb off and enjoy some centrifugal fun - well, that's what BMW riders do. Today H101 sported showrooms of Harleys heading north, the riders for the most part enjoying the sunshine in their Sunday best apparel: black leather riding jackets, black shiny helmets, black shades and wifey's perched on the back with compatible uniforms. I have now perfected the left hand laid-back Harley wave. The feeling of cameraderie is infectious, and 

Only occasionally unreciprocated when J, riding ahead, quite deliberately spoils my Masonic fun by offering the oncoming Harleys a sort of Teutonic parody, something between a Gay greeting and Sieg Heil.

Mm

At Reedsport we pulled in for a quick map check. Big Soph was travelling forwards beautifully, without hesitation, deviation or repetition.nothing like a set of tight spokes. To get to Grants Pass, however, it was time to take temporary leave of H101  and head East on R38 along the grey greasy banks of the mighty Umpaqua. We trailed a group of about 6 Harley riders travelling at a similar pace on Electaglides with monkey bars. At this rate we would be in or looking at our airbeds by 8 pm.

However when I checked my fuel gauge (which is difficult to see as you need to lean forward and take your eye off the road)I got a shock. The needle was well in the red. We were on a 60+ mile stretch of middle of nowhere land. I reduced speed to what I judged to be a fuel saving lick, kept gearing low and chugged on. J thought the Satnav had a tool prompting fueling points. And so it did. Trouble was that it kept on telling me to turn left into unmade roads or fields. I felt that it clearly did not have my best interests at heart. And now the needle was bumping on empty. Over the intercom, j with sadistic anticipation casually enquired about the level on the Richter scale I would reach when I ran out of petrol. According to the map we should have arrived at a place called Drain by now whose streets, I wishfully expected, would be awash with petrol.But Drain had disappeared....Ahead I spotted a parked pickup truck towing a trailer with a beach buggy on it, with two menwalking around it checking their load. I stopped. There was a language problem at first because i made an enquiry about petrol. This was something neither man had heard of. But when we understood one another,  I was told that there was a gas station just round the next bend. After miles of rugged countryside with few signs of civilisation this was welcome news. And as I saw the unmistakeable yellow and red livery of Shell on a hill surrounded by shiny white pumps I thought of Tintin crawling through the Desert with Captain Haddock towards an oasis mirage. Joy!

A short visual break...

After Big Sophie had a big drink onto Interstate 5, North to South. This was what at this stage we needed - an 80 mile zip to our destination. Riders - ok. BMW - ok (well, it always is). BigSoph - happily full of fuel and singing her favourite song "Potato potato" cruising down the highway. The speed limit was 65, which we happily but safely exceeded.At Grants Pass we stopped at MacDonalds for a snack and a drink, but mainly because I don't recall our arrival time. At Grants Pass we stopped of at McDonalds, not so much for the haute cuisine as the fact that you could wash down the burgers and French fries with free Wi-Fi. Atlast we had the address of our Airbeds. Ten minutes later after chugging through acres of endless suburban real estate we arrived. Our Airhosts and hostesses, Carol and ...Fred (?) Welcomed us into their spacious one story spread built on the bend of a fast flowing river (Fred: " I wish I could fish")> I sensed we were fairly high up (Carol: "I don't know about that"). We unloaded in the last of the evening's light, and shared a little red wine left over from the picnic of the day before. And Carol and ...Fred (?)? The house has swallowed them up. They have vanished into thin air.

Sunday 18th May

Big breakfast and big trees

No wonder so many Americans are overweight. Ther breakfast waiting for us on this our first rainy start comprised pancakes like doorsteps with maple syrup, turkey bacon and a fried egg. Enough calories for a Marathon. The chef was not Carol or ...Fred(?), who were still on the missing list, but a large extravert in his late 30's called Damian. While he filled our stomachs and J with useful information about the route ahead, I brought the blog up to date. I did howeverv learn that Damien was a hairdresser working locally.

...Fred (?) put in a brief appearance as breakfast ended. So also Carol who remained to see us off. By this time I had learned that all three of them were hairdressers. It was the family business. There was obviously a lot of fast growing hair in Grants Pass.

As we left it had stopped raining but that didn't last for long. Within three miles we were climbing into our wets. I gave Big Soph another drink. I wasn't going to make the same mistake in 24 hours. A bit like never passing up on a loo when you've reached a certain age...

Now across country West back to the coast. Route 199 took us over a steep mountain ridge that had sharp hairpin bends and rocks in the middle of the road, which made for interesting riding. The weather however got worse, and by the time we reached flat country the other side, the rain was worse. 

We spotted a roadside cafe called Hiouchi as the heavens really opened. In we went. The place was full of old timers happily late breakfasting , who clearly all knew each other and had not lost the art of conversation. I read some of the Hiouchi Cafe's history printed on the place mats on our table:

"Between the loggers, the fishermen and the locals, it became a honky-tonk with a reputation for serious drinking and nightly fist fights."

Unfortunately we couldn't stay for the floor show, and rejoined H101 with a sense of relief, heading southward briefly into Crescent City. I woke up to the fact tht we had somehow crossed the State line into California. We stopped off at a Starbucks, sat outside in the sunshine and removed our wets.

We had missed a scenic stretch of H101that literature had extolled, and so we went North briefly for about 40 miles to have a butchers. We turned back at the Pistol River. The coast line was full of rocky coves and high vistas. As we turned back on our tracks I realised how much better travelling Southwards is. The light is so much more pervasive.Still a few clouds around but no more rain. Across the State line into California, and it is now time to visit some special trees.

The Redwood forests of Northern California are spectacular. Our billet for tonight where I am writing this is in a one horse town called Miranda in a cabin/ motel recommended by Damian, in a Redwood forest.We will walk in this forest tomorrow.

Big Soph had plenty of opportunity to be of good behaviour today, and she did not let me down. Long may that last.

The day finished without supper, which mattered not a lot. Damien's breakfast was still gurgling in our guts. J and I sat round a wood fire outside drinking Zinfandel. Perhaps that is California's finest. We may soon be in wine country, and will have an opportunity to find out. 

Pic of an unusual bedroom in Newport

Dunno what Steinbeck would have thought but we rather like it...

Man trashes two Harleys in four days (Jony)

Like all the best attention-grabbing headlines, there is an element of truth in that, which Nick's entry attempts to flesh out.

Before I attempt to describe the solution to what I have to call Nick's wobbly bottom, our more literary readers will be delighted to learn that Saturday morning finds us in the Sylvia Beach hotel in Newport which is as unlike our previous accommodations as could be imagined. Gone are the rather spartan furnishings, the communal kitchens, the bare walls and ubiquitous wifi. Instead I am writing from a cozy, homely room, surrounded by the ephemera of a literary life...the life of John Steinbeck. To my left is a map of his journey round America with his dog Charly, plus photos of both, To my right an image of Cannery Row, about which he wrote, photos of destitute americans searching for work in the 1930s, a microscope (?), and of course a bookcase full of his books. Most dramatically, behind me is a wall-sized painting of the fully laden truck on which he travelled with a real radiator in its centre.

Each room at the SB hotel has a similar literary theme; there is a library. It is, in short, something of an institution in this part of the world and visitors return year after year. At supper last night, we were seated among the other guests and encouraged to interact by means of a charades-like game...There is, of course, no wifi. I rather like it.

As it happens, the hotel is also conveniently close to R&R 'Hawg' Motors (Not Affiliated to Harley Davison), as their sign board proudly announces. Thither
we directed our wobbling footsteps yesterday, first left, second right and continue down the track past the derelict warehouses, sort of thing.

And Lo, like Ezekiel before him, Rich himself appeared holding a reassuringly oily wrench. A man of few words, he cast himself upon the ground and set to tapping the spokes on Nick's wheel. This produced a rather tuneful melody and much sucking of teeth because, of course dear reader, they're all meant to sound the same!

As this was occurring, we looked into Rich's establishment and saw that it was packed full of rusting hulks, the debris of a motorcycling life well lived. None of yer trendy sports bikes or naked racers, here were the skeletons of classic hand-built bikes from the 1940s and earlier. There were leather seats, brass mascots, half-built engine blocks, names of classic bikes of a bygone era.


One of Rich's bikes before he began his magic work




And afterwards. Good work eh?

And, sitting quietly in the corner, was someone very like Father Time himself. If Rich was 60, this guy was nearer 80. Rich came in from his tuning and began to tell us of a classic two-week cross-country ride from Florida to Washington State, using almost entirely back roads, that is shortly to take place and for which he is rebuilding one of his bikes. Even though the machine itself lay in bits all around us, you somehow knew that both bike and man would make the distance without breaking into a sweat.

Like Steinbeck before us, we had left the main track and somehow stumbled on this alternative, very real, biking universe where they don't plug in the laptop to diagnose a problem but take the dang thing apart.

Inevitably this all takes time, especially since their working day appears to start at about noon. 'Oh. shall we give you a ring about 1.00ish then?' we suggested, foolishly thinking that it couldn't take long to tighten a few spokes. 'Well,' drawled Rich, 'we'll have to take both wheels off, and both the tyres to look at the thing properly. Let's say about 4.00 o'clock shall we?'

We shook hands and mounted up on my own trusty teutonic steed which carried us to our hotel (and would probably have carried us to Berlin) without the faintest hint of wobble or oily exhaust. But after what we had just seen, I'm sure I wasn't alone in feeling that this ruthless efficiency was, perhaps, just a tiny bit boring.

Spokes and eardrops (Nick)

J will point out that if you do not go down the road of ruthless efficiency and ride a BMW, you have only yourself to blame if things go wrong. J's ethos is based on the harnessing of cutting edge technology, the thrill of its handling at corners, its smooth quiet running an its considerable reservoir of power, there when you need it. Woody Allen might say that the only trouble with riding one was that it made you want to invade Poland.

I have always resisted this. To me these German machines look too functional. Too many good old-fashioned good looks have been sacrificed. Wharts and all, give me the chugging old Harley with its enormous V twin engine churning out potato-potato and tons of beautifully shaped gleaming chrome. That's all you need to swing round corners. Gently.

At least that WAS my point of view. Things looked different today. For the last two days I had detected a strange lateral movement in the frame. In particular whenever I decelerated from 60 down to about 45 the Harley wabbled. Today it was worse than before and J noticed it from behind and commented. At a garage where we had stopped for petrol, one of my new Harley friends pulled in on a 'Glide, and J mentioned the problem to him. "Ain't ya heard of the Harley Wabble?" he said, and suggested we looked it up on the web.

We cruised down H101 southwards, admiring vistas of the Pacific that suddenly offered themselves. With Big Soph playing up I was careful with her but progress was being made. We stopped off for a picnic lunch at Cape Look-out. It was scenic and sunny and a good spot. I had woken up that morning with a blocked right ear. There I was, munching a piece of French bread with cheese, while Jony bombed my right ear with eardrops.

Back on R101 we cruised down hill to Lincoln City, not a memorable place but it was there that we decided that the wabble had to go, and I phoned Eagle HQ. I agreed to phone back while they thought about it. When I called back Andrew our manager there told us he had located a Harley expert at Newport our destination that night, a guy called Rich at Northeast First Street. He would fix the problem. Just as well. By that time J had found "Harley Wabble on the web. It made interesting and worrying reading. And what was the problem Andrew? "Probably something to do with the wheel spokes" was the reply.

We made the acquintance of Rich, after dropping off our luggage at the Sylvia Beech hotel, Newport. Now Rich is an old school Harley man, so laid back he's almost horizotal. His working day starts at 12. He immediately went to the wheels and listened intently as he played the spokes with a spanner like a xylaphone. Several of the spokes rang low or dud notes. That seemed to diagnose the problem, but work couldn't start till tomorrow. Perhaps we could drop in at around four? Whatever it took, we said.

Back to the Sylvia Beach on J's pillion, mercifully disregarding all signs to Poland, and just time to clean up before the 7 pm deadline for dinner. The Sylvia Beech is a splendid institution run by three Mrs Marples. Its theme is British and American literature. We had what must have been one of the finest rooms in the place, the John Steinbeck room.As you enter it there is the front of an old Ford car where the fireplace once was and an array of Steinbecks books on shelves, as well as pictures of him with his large poodle. Above my bed is a wood-framed picture of a slogan which dated back to the days of the Great Depression in Grapes of Wrath, saying "Jobless Men Keep Going. We can't take care of our own".

Amusing dinner. Guests are seated by the senior Mrs Marple at one of about six square tables, and encouraged to mingle by playing a game. Each person took turns to make three statements, two true and one false. Questions could be asked and the answers were discussed. The table had to guess which the false statement was. Pleasant enough company. Agatha Christie would have found it inspirational, and she would have enjoyed deciding which of our dinner companions would not have made it through the night.

Time for more eardrops, Jony.


Jony

Before and after bike pics

One of Russ's bikes before he began his magic work

And afterwards. Good work eh?

A terrible pun for Jan

An embarrassingly bad pun, writ large in Newport.

Easy Burger and an Albatross (Nick)

Thurs 15th May

Up at 0600, rested, not feeling lagged. What happened to jet lag? Read on. Perhaps the adrenalin of near disaster disposed of some of it. Lots of tasks AM. We'll do without Satnav till Aberdeen.

Off on H101, listening to music in my crash helmet: Doors, Beachboys, Dyllan, great! Aberdeen yukh! Even uglier than the Scottish version. Over the bridge and down H101, with J recce'ing ahead to look for a suitable lunch stop in Raymond. He did well, and found Slater's Diner - a real retro 50's place blasting Connie Francis, Bill Hayley, Buddie Holly -style toons. Posters on the wall all dating back. My favourite caption beneath a huge Burger "It ain't healthy, but it sure tastes good!"

Harley folk are my new friends. We greet each other on 101 with a low left hand gesture that I have been practising all morning. It is all one big happy family. It is like dog owners meeting in the park. Conversation between strangers is simple as you have so much caninery in common. And while you are rapping away, the dogs are making friends and sniffing each others' backsides, which is, I suppose, where the analogy breaks down. A small man with a very tall wife and an enormous Harley approached me in the car park. Our caninery was typical. They were headed North on 101: J and I were headed South, and so on. I watched them leave, wanting to hear his powerful Electroglide fire up, but mainly to see who drove and who rode pillion.

Time no issue off we went at a leisurely pace. J now in teaching mode, still critical of the way I take corners Take a R corner with pressure down with hands and feet on the R handle bar and running board, and press till you get the right incline for the bend... it works! Practice important as R101 a lot more twisty oon this 160 mile stretch of WA.

Just before the State border we decided to take a look at Cape Disappointment and the famous old lighthouse there. Through a stretch of windy, hilly, forested and tiny roads we reached a car park and parked up. A brief steep climb and we emerged onto the bluff above the cape looking at the windy Pacific below, and to our left the view we had come to see, the old lighthouse perched at the edge of the cliff. Battered and rusty, it had the appearance of long disuse, like an old man's willy. It was a disappointment, but what did we expect?

Over the magnificent Columbia bridge. Wind so strong that I had to lean the Harley against it and push like an arm wrestling contest. Into Oregan and the port of Astoria.Batteries on all equipment low, and so grateful to be guided to our hostel the Norblad Hotel near the riverside. A shower and relax in our four berth room on a bottom bunk, while J went off for another recce. My thoughts wandered. Feeeling down about news received today: Terry and Lewis Clark didn't make it at Guildford Crown Court, convicted of Armed Robbery. A matter of regret but a tough one. Even tough ones can be swung around. Not this time. Father and son down.

Jet lag pounced as I ruminated thus and I drifted into deep sleep, waking up a couple of hours later. J ad researched some watering holes that might appeal and we settled for the Albatross, a 5 minute walk from our hostel with amusing beers and a Prohibition theme. I can't handle strong beer, but J tried some Belgian concoction that was Viscous and dark, which lasted him almost the entire evening, while I happily tossed off a couple of cans of light lager. All of this washed down by yet another burger, this one presenting with a knife stuck dramitally in the middle and looking like the leaning tower of Pisa. Mine host was Eric, a lanky Yanky who had made a career of doing up joints like this one and selling them on as going concerns.He was vastly amused by my story of abject commercial failure many years ago at the Royal Oak in Kent. He also looked mystified, as though failure in this field was something he didn't really understand.

We have about 200 miles to do tomorrow down the Oregan coast and so, as Pepys would say, now to bed.

Pic of the editorial team hard at work

Nick labours to produce his first blog entry....

In which Nick hits the road (Nick)

Punctual rendez-vous with Andrew from Eagle Riders. Took us a long way across Seattle to Eagle HQ. Collected Harley (excellent) and GS 1200 BMW (ruthlessly efficient) for J. Off to Bainbridge ferry from Seattle Port, docking cross the archipelago at Bainbridge around 11.00. Good start heading north and then onto Highway 101. But at the junction with Route 20 calamity. I had second thoughts about a right turn off Highway 101 to Port Townsend, pulled in onto some gravel and on stopping I lost the balance of the bike and dropped her.

A bike standing on some gravel, looking a bit ashamed of herself.

A tell-tale patch of oil....

...and a snapped brake lever, all tell the sorry story.

 We got her upright after all the oils had spilled out and a brake lever end ( cosmetic and plastic) had snapped off. J drove off to find a garage, and I took refuge at Fat Smitty's burger bar opposite.

Fat Smittys was our first exposure to the idiosyncrasies of American eateries.

 Back with the oil, oil in engine but, the Harley refused to start up, despite many tries. We got through to Eagle Riders. When I wrote this note we were waiting for Mike to arrive with a replacement or a fix. not a good start, but at least we could wait for our help to arrive with the sustenance that Fat Smitty could provide. No sign of jet lag yet - something of a miracle. We'll be late to bed tonight methinks.


11.15pm Quinault River Inn, Amanda Park, Route 101
Late? You betcha. Eagle Rider had promised a man with a van in an hour but it wasn't until 1645 that the charming Mike arrived, who made no fuss about my mistake.Unloading the new Harley and pushing in the old one took half an hour and we were away by 1730.

We decided to do it without the Satnav and use map-memory. We got lost. One moment we were on R101, which started promisingly enough but then we found ourselves going through leafy suburbs and housing estates, eventually rolling up to a barrier across the road. Well we found R101 hiding the other side of a forest. So joyful were we about this that we turned onto it the wrong way. If J hadn't begun to question why the sun had decided to start setting in the East instead of the West, we would have been pulling into the outskirts of Seattle by now.

Eventually heading the right way down 101we checked our Motel at Quinault. Late was fine by them. They collected the same fee even if we didn't arrive at all. We made up for some lost time, but dusk was approaching quickly.

What a beautiful State is WA! As we turned SW on R101 towards a one-horse town called Forks the narrow highway twisted and turned. I became appreciative of the speed warning signs at every bend that was judged to need one. And then we found ourselves in a beautiful mountainous area descending to a huge lake that reminded me of a Scottish loch. We followed the RH edge of it for miles, rounding every little inlet. A man in a boat was at least a mile out there enjoying his solitude. We had to keep going though. J was getting cold having only a light jacket. Forks would be a fuel stop and an opportunity to grab warmer clothing.

Back on R101, it was on the way to nightfall. It had been an eventful day for the surprisingly un-jetlagged me. But the Almighty had another test for me up his sleeve. Through my intercom I heard J point out a deer that he had seen race across the road behind him. I slowed, having seen a little bit of him disappear into the undergrowth on my left. It was as well that I did. As I passed where he had disappeared, the animal shot back out into my path. I braked from about 45 to 35 and skidded slightly. I missed it by a whisker. Lucky deer. Lucky biker. So we arrived at the motel just before 10.. Alas no food, but Fat Smitty had taken care of my appetite. Sleep now...

Arrival in Seattle (Nick & Jony) and A bit of background (Jony)

Wednesday 14th (I think).
I missed J at Tacoma and couldn't somehow manage to communicate with my awesome new smartphone either by text, phonecall or email. so headed off to downtown Seattle on foot with my kilos of luggage. J got through to me as I was waiting for a Seattlebound monorail train to start. He was at baggage reclaim. Where was I? Reunion 10 mins later, J looking fit and healthy. J told me that no one had as yet commented on his British accent. I announced that someone would be sure to do so before the cock crowed three times. In Seattle it was bus stop time, but which stop? J went off to seek intel. I got talking to this tubby black lady outside the station. "Gee...accent?!" she said almost immediately. I said "Yeah but wait till you hear my mate..." J appeared announcing predictably that he had located the bus stop round the corner. "Hey!" says Juliet (well she MIGHT have been called Juliet) "Could you just say something else?" At that point the Seattle town clock struck 7. I spoilt it a bit by then commenting on Juliet's wonderful Seattle accent. She looked mystified. "But I'm from Florida....?" Safely installed in grotty hostel, and sampled our first American style bar snack which did for supper and more, with some interesting beer. Jet lag? Jury still out.

Nick's arrival in Seattle (Jony)

Although the diary of a first day's journey would normally be written by the campfire after a well-earned supper and tales of objectives achieved, this is not the case today.

I should have been alerted to Nick's ability to pluck disaster from the face of triumph when I left him alone for, literally, 30 seconds, on the street in Seatttle yesterday, in order to get my bearings. When I returned - did I mention it was only 30 seconds? - he was engaged in conversation with a large person of the female persuasion, such as you might well find on the streets of Camberwell Church Road for example, which might account for Nick's familiarity and ease with said woman. Nick gives his version of events above but he does not reveal that, as I dragged him away to catch a bus, he could not resist leaning over and giving the frankly amazed woman, a peck on the cheek!


A bit of background (Jony)
After many months of very grown up planning that included a couple of super responsible 'Back to Bike' courses to refresh our skills and the wildly impulsive purchase of a Harley Davison from the owner who just happened to have stopped at some traffic lights, Nick and Jony's plans to live-life-while-they-still-could, plans that were first hatched after we had each been treated for prostate cancer back in 2013, to the starting gate, ie Heathrow.

The initial idea - to follow James Dean (or was it Paul Newman?) and ride the famous Highway 66 on a Harley - was refined and redirected along another famous biking route: Route 101 which runs down the Pacific Coast Highway from Seattle in Washington, via the sweeping cliff tops of Oregon and the Big Sur in California, to San Diego, down Mexico way. Partly because Nick's sister-in-law, Natasha lives in Malibu Beach this was chosen as our destination.

Although there are many companies offering short, accompanied motorbike tours in Seattle area and in the Los Angeles area, there were few able to offer a 'one way' hire and, in the end, we went with Eagle Rider, who are loosely associated with Harley Davison and thus ought to know their stuff. As a born-again Harley rider, Nick would consider no other machine; it was just a question of which model. He went for an upgrade on the Softail Classic that hides its gleaming chrome light in a darkened but heavily secured garage in North London.

In the course of our 'back to biking' course, I briefly tried a BMW 1200GS - the model popularised by Ewan McGregor in his round the World Series with Charlie Borman. Despite the fact that it was completely the opposite of the curvaceous RT that I ride around the Cotswolds, I loved the performance of this and therefore decided that the american trip would be a good time to test this out at length.

We are therefore chalk and cheese: Nick's "Big Sophie" is, I think, about 1700cc of noisy, throbbing, in yer face american muscle replete with studded luggage and chrome everywhere! My BMW sounds like a sewing machine in comparison, with its bright blue tank and sporty style, we ride out like well... is it Don Quixote and Sancho Panza? or more Dr Johnson and Mr Boswell?

There's no doubt that Nick fancies himself in the learned role: he takes every opportunity to inform his public, from the most menial diner attendant to the woman on the street, that he was educated at Oxford and knows a thing or two about Ovid. I, too, am not unhappy in the support role, though perhaps Radar from MASH might be more appropriate, given the sad shortage of Nick's technological skills.

However the roles pan out, we're looking forward to a couple of weeks of self discovery, laughs and some spectacular scenery. Unfortunately, as I write, Nick has completely crashed out after two day's boasting about how amazingly resilient he is to jet lag! O tempora o mores, as Ovid would probably have put it.