Photo by Michael Pierce.

I left Quincy in my mirrors as the sky started to lighten into a gorgeous orange sunrise. Riding a motorcycle in the pre-dawn hours is a lot like riding a motorcycle in the evening. It is a dangerous past-time. Deer and other forest animals are out and about seeking vegetation and water. They’ll blithely wander into the road without a care in the world.

“Dum-dee-dum”.

I’m not five miles outside of Quincy when I see a flash out of the corner of my eye. Instinct takes over and I swerve away from the source of the flash. There’s a sharp thwack and the bike bobbles. “Cheese!” I’m still upright but my direction of travel is now directly into oncoming traffic. “Son of a B….!” escapes my lips and I consciously look where I want to go as I steer the bike back into my lane. I’m braking heavily when my right side case passes me in my own lane. Scccrrrriitttch, then whap! The case makes a semi-graceful arc off the shoulder of the road before it explodes into a festival of color. “Fwoop! Fluffa fluffa” my nice clean laundry flutters into the muddy ditch. Well, that was way too exciting.

Now that I’m stopped, I look back and see a small deer staggering to his feet. Apparently he ran right into the side of my bike and removed my side case with his head. I’m not hurt, and he doesn’t seem to be either since he bounds off into the woods a few moments later. I gather up my clothing, pick up the side case and re-pack the contents. Amazingly, the case clips right back into place and I’m good to go.

Once my nerves settle that is.

Using back roads as much as possible, I ride around the east side of Mount Lassen and back across the summit of the volcano from north to south. A few picture opportunities later and it’s time to point the front wheel at the coast. Redding works as a stop for lunch, the technical turns and twists of highway 299 entertain me all the way to the shore of the Pacific.

Rolling into Eureka for the third time on this trip feels like coming home. I snag the same hotel room I was in just a few weeks ago, unload the bike and walk across the street for a steak and a single malt. I’m acutely aware that today was the first day of this trip when I didn’t have a single thought about my failed marriage. Well, until now that is.

The cool breeze off the Pacific is refreshing in the morning. It’s actually cool enough that I turn up the heated grips to regain some feeling in my fingers. This cool temperature is so different from the last several days I’ve spent riding in the Sierras that I spend a few moments mentally marveling at the diversity of northern California.

It’s deep into vacation season and I’m not the only person taking one. I’m riding the coast highway among a herd of gigantic bison like mega motor homes. Flocks of Subaru station wagons bearing mountain bike laden racks are plodding along like obedient sheep. Seemingly every vehicle out today has an ulterior motive. I ascribe to the philosophy of the “Anti-destination League”. I swear the people driving near me today are charter members of the ADL. “It’s time to head inland” I say to myself, so I do.

At Orick I turn up the hill onto one of my favorite ‘secret roads’. I climb from sea-level in just a few miles to Schoolhouse Ridge, and then ride along the ridge through the coastal redwoods until I reach a vast sea of wild grass. I’ve found Schoolhouse Peak. I ride to the fire watch tower and climb to the deck, taking almost an hour at mid-morning to absorb the beauty of this lightly visited area.

It’s a steep drop down the east side of the park on the switch-back filled, twisting, loose gravel cornered Bald Hill Road. I’m on edge, riding cautiously on a motorcycle completely unsuited to this task, until I reach the Hoopa Rancheria at the Klamath River.

The reward for the hour of clenched teeth is a two hundred plus mile loop of empty, twisted asphalt. For the next five hours, I’m intent on exploring the limits of my riding skills. I fly from Weitchpec to Somes Bar. From there it’s a giggle over ultra narrow Salmon River Road and narrower yet Sawyers Bar Road to Etna. A break from the assault of the twisties to catch my breath occurs as I ride the nearly straight road from Etna to Fort Jones and then, with a vengeance, I throw myself back into the corners as I ride Scott River Road from Fort Jones to Scott Bar. Catching CA96 at Scott Bar I turn west and south on this E-ticket road to finish the loop back at Weitchpec.

I’m elated, while at the same time I’m physically tired, and so is my bike. There’s a ‘tinking’ sound coming from beneath the bike as the exhaust system cools. I note with a sense of satisfaction that I’ve been using all of the tread available. This set of tires is worn clear to the edges. I unzip my jacket to catch the cooling breeze off the river and lean back against a low stone to stretch my legs. Behind my closed eyelids, I replay the highlights of the roads I’ve just been playing on. I nap in the sun for almost an hour.

A short break for a soda at the Weitchpec General Store and it’s time to fire the bike back up and turn north. CA96 is a continuous roller-coaster ride all of the way to Happy Camp, where I intend to head to Oregon on Indian Creek Road.

Following Indian Creek Road, eventually I’ll come out at O’Brien. I’ve been assured of this by my map. This is serious back woods country. Crashing in these woods could be fatal. Even if I were to survive a gentle biff, if I’m injured the lack of services and nearly non-existent traffic could mean the end of me. I’m highly aware of this as I decelerate and turn onto the National Forest Road. I have two hours of daylight remaining. I think I can make it to O’Brien before dark, I mean; it’s not even thirty miles! Of course I can make it.

I don’t. Instead of being in O’Brien as the sun sets I’m sullenly standing over my sleeping motorcycle as it lays prone, sighing like a lazy donkey, in the middle of a dirt road. “Son of a B…!” I say for the second time on this trip. I heave, I pull; I squat and lift with my legs. All my sweat is to no avail. Throwing a seven hundred and fifty pound motorcycle down on the dirt is a lot easier than lifting it back up.

Why am I in this predicament? First I miss a turn. Then, as if it is another page of my destiny, I lose traction climbing this rutted damned gravel strewn dirt road in the middle of God Knows Where in Sam Hill, when the front wheel hits a large rock. I am pitched to the ground. The Beast follows me and lays down with the sound of breaking bodywork, his wheels pointing up the hill. “Son of a B…!” I say again, as I start un-strapping my camping gear and doing my best to offload as much luggage from the bike as I can.

This is just not working out well at all. I set up my campsite right there in the road and fall asleep with one ear to the ground. Maybe I’ll get lucky and a stagecoach will come.

Salvation arrives in the form not of a stagecoach, rather it appears in the form of a CDF/California Prisons fire fighting team in a big red truck. At 3 am the lads from the state prison work camp are on their way from camp to a fresh conflagration in the woods, when they come down the road in their crew bus.

I come awake to the sounds of squeaking brakes and an idling diesel motor. I’m greeted with smiles and a hearty “Can we help you?” “Oh yes, yes indeed” say I. Minutes later the battered bike is back upright and I’m left behind in the early morning darkness. There is indeed a use for axe murderers and Daddy rapists. That purpose is rescuing my sorry butt. Thank you, good bad guys and your keepers who stopped to help.

I climb back into my tent and sleep until dawn. I’m barely awake when it becomes obvious that I need to remove myself from the dirt road to enable a fleet of fire fighting trucks and vans to pass. Apparently it’s a big conflagration in the woods. I follow their trail through the dust for a few miles until our paths diverge. As I pop out onto the highway, I find the wee town of O’Brien wide awake and filled with smoke from the fire on the Oregon / California border.

I was less than ten miles from my destination when my motorcycle decided to take a dirt nap.

I spend an hour with a roll of duct tape patching and reinforcing the cracked plastic bodywork. When I’m done, I’m satisfied that nothing is going to come adrift while I ride but, the old bike is way on the far side of handsome. Instead, it looks like the bike went a round or two with a prize fighter and lost. It’s a lucky thing that I have a complete spare Concours at home with near new bodywork. I think I’ve just given myself an excuse for yet another project.

I ride until late in the afternoon and luck finally smiles on me. I find a fantastic camp site in the Cascade Mountains outside of Sisters. With my tent set up and my sleeping bag waiting patiently to coddle me, I heat a can of beans and franks over a low fire, then settle back to watch the stars for a couple of hours after sunset. I climb into that inviting sleeping bag and sleep the sleep of the crashed. I hate days like this. I hate them especially when they’re a day and a half long.