The PCH, Route 66, And Life’s Changes On The Go

I was at my uncle’s house, in Los Angeles. It was a beautiful morning; I was eating a fresh grapefruit that grew in a pot on his front step. He asked me where I’d planned to ride that day.

Big Sur, I told him. My uncle said I’d better check the weather—rain was coming. A lot of rain. And he was right—the forecast said an “atmospheric river” was going to hit the coast later in the day. Forget Big Sur; I’d have to settle for the Rock Store. I texted my friend Marty, and a few minutes later, I was out the door. Turn right at Santa Monica, head north on the PCH. Pacific Palisades, Topanga Beach, head into the hills in Las Flores, just before Malibu, and then I was in motorcycle heaven.

What a place to wake up!

And what a way to wake up: picking grapefruit from your front yard.

Fresh-off-the-tree citrus and coffee. Best breakfast a man can get.

For someone who’s never ridden the Santa Monica Mountains, north of LA, it’s hard to express what an amazing place this is. The roads are tight and twisty and the scenery ranges from quirky mid-century houses to billionaire’s mansions to rocky cliffs to small agricultural plantations to the Pacific Ocean crashing just beyond a gorgeous beach. All the things you want to see on a ride, all the things you want to do on a ride, are all here. I was late for my meet-up, but I still had to stop a couple of times and just soak it all in. The morning before, I’d started my day in a snowstorm, with a treacherous slog to the airport through uncleared street in a barely-running pickup truck. Now, I was on a brand-new Honda Transalp, riding through the most gorgeous scenery in North America.

The trip had started with this misery.

And now I was in motorcycle heaven. The Santa Monicas, with the ocean to the west. The bike is sitting on a hill, and if you looked over the edge, you’d see the Pacific Coast Highway running along the beach.

Traffic was very light. It was the weekend, but temperatures were early-February cool. Not bad for me, but locals wouldn’t have been keen. I met one or two convertibles with the tops down, and the dedicated surfers were still out there catching waves, but I didn’t see any other motorcycles in the twisties as I headed inland. I stopped at the Dan Behar Memorial and checked my phone’s map. The Mulholland Highway was just around the corner, and then the Rock Store.

No celebrity sightings today!

Inside, the Rock Store is really just a humble diner.

Jay Leno wasn’t hanging out there today (maybe recovering from his latest mishap), but Marty was waiting with his R 1200 GS. He was happy to show me his favorite roads around the Santa Monicas; after a couple of hours, we split up as I had to get inland. I wanted to beat the rain.

Traffic was light, thanks to chilly weather, so I had the corners to myself.

The Santa Monicas might be the best place in the U.S. to street-ride a motorcycle

At the Dan Behar Memorial. Gorgeous scenery everywhere you look.

I ended up heading into the high desert, where the scenery changed a lot. Gone were the twisties, the wineries, the multimillion-dollar homes, replaced by dirt, tumbleweed and ranch gates with ominous warnings. I met a chain of Vagos; I didn’t wave to them, and they didn’t wave to me, each of us hell-for-leather bent on very different tasks. And then, just as dark came and cold desert air hit the plains, I got to Victorville. I went to bed expecting to wake to a deluge, probably stuck in my crappy Motel 6 drinking crappy coffee as the state was hit by mass flooding.

In the morning, the skies were grey but the only sign of rain was a few small puddles that had accumulated over the night. The forecast said that if I left right now and headed east, I might be OK, so that’s what I did. Historic Route 66 was nearby; Big Sur was out (the rain had already started there, and was hitting it hard), so I headed east through more high desert, noting with some interest that I kept seeing signs warning of deadly danger when the roads flooded.

Around Victorville, the scenery left much to be desired.

I was running away from the flooding, before it got here.

As it turned out, behind me, LA County got a year’s worth of rain in a day, and there were several fatalities.

I guess it was a good thing I was headed away from the trouble.

I really didn’t know what to expect as I pointed the bike towards the Arizona border, but as morning turned into afternoon, I was more and more impressed with the scenery, and the people who’d survived this region. Anyone who’s read The Grapes Of Wrath probably remember the scene where the grandmother dies in the car as they drive Route 66 in the desert overnight, but they don’t dare stop to bury her. They’re terrified of being caught in the blazing midday sun. When you’re on the edge of the Mojave, you can understand just a little bit of that fear that must have faced those migrant workers driving rickety cars in the old days. For mile after lonely mile, I saw nothing but sand and tumbleweed, with the occasional dirty house on the side of the road, and harsh mountains off in the distance. The occasional rock juts out of the brush here, but there’s nowhere to hide from nature’s wrath. In California, Route 66 is not much of a road for twisties, but it’s an experience nevertheless.

A desolate landscape for miles, but still plenty to see if it’s new to you.

Clouds were following me, but I stayed dry at least.

The volcanic eruption that serves as the housing of the Amboy Crater.

I wanted to explore here, but wasn’t geared properly.

The people who lived here, and still live here, have to be tough.

A break from the desert, but even this landmark has fallen on hard times.

I stopped at the Amboy Crater and killed a few more minutes at Roy’s Motel & Cafe, one of the few places maintaining some sort of civilization in the area now that traffic all moved to Route 40. It was just one more testament to the toughness needed to survive here. This once-booming little outpost was now mostly shut down, but it was still hanging on, still offering food, fuel and a few minutes’ shelter to travelers.  I would have done well to gas up here myself, but looked at the gauge, knew I had to detour to the four-lane highway anyway, and figured I’d easily find fuel there.

Wrong. Instead of a convenient gas station, I ended up battling crazy-high winds while I dueled with truckers headed east, and I noticed with some alarm that my gas gauge was dropping rapidly. The Transalp was fuel-efficient, but I was in trouble. I gritted my teeth, pulled in behind a transport, and drafted him for at least 20 miles while the bike’s dash flashed “Empty.” The gas at Najah’s Desert Oasis in Goffs was the most expensive fuel I’ve ever bought in the U.S., but it was well worth it.

An expensive gas stop, but a chance to get off the highway and get hydrated at leasat.

Whining about the price at the pumps wouldn’t have made me any friends.

This week, as I watched the news, I’ve been thinking about that ride. The beautiful country the day had started with, along the Pacific Coast Highway—it’s all burned now. The Pacific Palisades fire this week has torched the most beautiful landscape in California. I thought about how I’d had to, once again, put off the plan to see Big Sur, and I wondered if it would be there next time I had the chance to go. I thought about the buildings that survived in the desert, on Route 66, hanging on through desolated decades while the paradise on the Pacific Ocean was gone overnight. And I thought about how I’m 40 now.

Life changes, and sometimes it changes pretty fast. If there’s something you want to see, or see again, you had better get to it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last half-decade, it’s that we aren’t guaranteed anything; the time to do whatever it is you’ve been putting off, is now.