Photo by Michael Pierce

Riding a motorcycle at night across a mountain road is best described as ‘a visceral experience.’

This is the story of riding my Triumph motorcycle across California Highway 36 in northern California on March 29th. In it, I’m on a motorcycle on a mountain road, at night, in the dark, with bears and everything. It’s twoo its twoo!

Known by many as one of the best motorcycle roads in the west, CA36 is a lightly traveled road that winds from near Fortuna at the south edge of Humboldt Bay on the Pacific Ocean, across the rugged Coastal Range and over the southern shoulder of Mt. Lassen, where it ends near Susanville in the far northeastern corner of ‘The Golden Bear State.’

The section I’m about to tackle is the one made famous by the ‘curves next 140 miles’ sign, bellowing its way from the coast to Red Bluff. The road is at its narrowest along this segment, twisting and gnarly in the woods and catapulting itself with glee over these rock strewn hills. While I’ve traveled many times from east to west on CA36, I’m traveling west to east for only my second time tonight. The first trip was during daylight over eight years ago. Already my pulse is slightly quickened.

Today, I’ve ridden from Eugene, Oregon south on I-5 and west on CA96 through Happy Camp and Hoopa, then west on CA299 from Willow Creek to Eureka. Most thoughtful riders would call it a day, and find a place to hole up until morning.

That’s not an option for me. I’m due at Thunder Hill Raceway in distant Willows, CA, at 5:30am for a photography gig.

The only answer is to press on.

After a delicious dinner of fresh fish & chips (served by a cute brunette who coddled me with a delightful pint of Lost Coast Ale), I take a pee break and a stretching walk around the block.

Refreshed and relaxed I climb back onto my big black Triumph Tiger 900 and growl my way out of town with the clock striking an ominous 7pm. Ok, it didn’t strike – it simply digitally flickered from 6:59 to 7:00. Cut me some slack.

Destination – Willows. My distance to cover is in the vicinity of a hundred and eighty-five miles, with most of that being across a delightful mountain road. It has become painfully obvious that most of the distance will be covered while bathed in darkness. I have a brief hour of daylight remaining. The beauty of daylight fades, as I fly across the asphalt.

The sky darkens to indigo and the sunset plays one last ray onto the bellies of the blue, purple and orange tinted clouds. A twinkle of light above and another, as first the planets, then the stars become visible in the deep ink of the evening sky.

Not long after, I find myself hurtling into blind corners, lit with feeble stray rays of illumination. I am a rider, unable to see beyond the black, fleeing into the unknown.

The road is tight, twisting back on itself. Curling, writhing, plummeting and rising as if it were a living, breathing beast. I flash past giant Redwood trees mere inches from my elbows. As I climb, cold mountain air replaces the pleasant coastal afternoon warmth.

I reach down with a blind twist; I turn the heated vest up another click. My arms and back are rewarded with a flush of warmth. On, onto the spine of the mountain, I climb.

The road narrows, where the pavement turns a light gray in the bath of my headlamps, the centerline disappears. There is only a lane and a half now of roadway to play upon. I find myself sharing with a few oncoming locals. I politely dip my headlamps as they stay well to their side, yet I’m left with only the slimmest of margins to pass with safety. Slipping by, each time I’m grateful the traffic is near zero.

Colder now, I’ve climbed above 3000 ft. The roadsides are rock strewn with patches of ice encrusted snow. It seems darker. I know I’m riding further away from safety. My mind gently probes the idea of being lost, hurt, my broken body hidden down a hill or beneath a cover of branches. I contemplate facing death on this road. With a headshake, I reject those thoughts and refocus on being smooth.

My toe reaches out and I click up a gear higher than ‘normal’, to carry a smooth entry into and through the corner. I refuse to startle when a small rock intrudes on my line, instead I make subtle adjustments and roll past the threat. My Tiger triple growls out of the corners, the overrun burbling behind as I roll off, then back onto the throttle for each twisting curve.

I recognize that I’m making an effort at staying focused and smooth. I have to. It is now as far to return to where I left, as it will be to continue on to my destination. I’m at the mid-point of this night ride. There is no returning. There is only forward. On to the next set of corners, the briefest of rests on the ever shorter straight sections.

There’s a flash in my mirror. Another, then the road behind is bathed in the light of a set of powerful headlamps. What is behind is quickly catching me. I roll into the next set of corners and for a few moments I’m alone again. Not for long. I can hear the whine of a turbo over the bellowing exhaust of a diesel. Yes, I’m being caught and passed by a pick-up truck on this winding, narrow mountain road. I’ll admit it. My motorcycle headlights and exposed human flesh cannot compete with a rack of Hella driving lamps and the protection of a 3 ton pick-up, driven by a local who obviously has made many trips across this mountain. I pull to the side at a safe location, wave the invisible driver by and watch as he or she skillfully navigates their way out of the canyon and over the ridge ahead. Shortly, I’m alone in the dark. I pull away and accelerate.

Miles roll under the tires. I am putting all of my trust in them, leaning and pushing my way around blind corners. I am alone with my thoughts, a solitary motorcyclist on that dark road.

As I reach the summit at nearly 5000 ft, I pull again to the side of the road. Shut off the Triumph. Pull off the helmet and balaclava. Remove the ear-plugs. I lean my head back with a sigh, as I breathe in the cold night.

Opening my eyes, I’m struck by how there are stars everywhere. Here, there are stars between the branches of the trees!

And the silence! I can hear the harsh tinkling of my bike as the exhaust system cools. I can hear the gurgle of the cooling system as it contracts. I can hear my heart beating in my ears and I can hear my own breathing. This is alone. I am so very alone.

As my ears become accustomed to the quiet, I hear the wind sighing in the branches of the trees. I hear the clicks and clatters of small rocks as something disturbs them. I hear water running and gurgling down the hillside that towers along side the road. With a louder thud, something has caused a large rock to roll across the road not fifty feet in front of me. Oh! I am very alone, feeling very vulnerable. I pull on the safety gear, fire up the bike and roll on.

Downhill now, I’ve crested the pass. The snow on the eastern side of the pass is slower to melt. The roadsides are heavily lined with dirty remnants of the winter’s snow. It’s almost to the point of a snow berm lining the shoulder of the road, but not quite.

I’m back into the rhythm. Back at the practice of slow, look, roll, push. Rinse, lather, and repeat. The road throws a few extra curves at me. Sometimes I find it doubling up on lefts; sometimes it spends itself tossing a set of triple rights at me.

I haven’t seen another vehicle on this road for a long time. I’ve passed down through 4000 ft, down through 3000 ft. Not a single oncoming car, truck or bicycle. For an hour I’ve sat here, twisted that and gone there. I’m off the single lane section, there’s a centerline again. The pavement is improving, along with the width of the lanes.

The night air is warmer, softer, filled with the scent of spring grasses. Crazed rabbits dash from the shoulder across the highway, their pale brown fur showing up in the light of my headlamps, performing a dance of bunny suicides.

Around gentler sweeping curves I roll past the sleeping population of Platina. Passing the closed storefront of the Platina General Store, this is the first sign of any hints of civilization that I’ve seen for two or more hours. Lights are on inside, neon beer signs spreading a commercial of light across the parking lot. There is not a soul in sight.

CA36 isn’t done toying with me. Between Platina and Red Bluff the highway is draped carelessly across rolling pasturelands. It is playful and roller-coaster like during daylight, deadly and foreboding in the dark. With little notice you crest steep short hills to find the road making sudden course changes. Pop up, expect the road to go left and it goes hard right. My Triumphs suspension is lightly loaded as I crest these hills. The brakes are less effective when the tires are scrabbling for grip. The game becomes one of toss and trust, toss and trust the tires. I find myself slowing for the corners, marked and unmarked alike, earlier than I have all night.

Passing the last of the ranchland, mailboxes line more of the road. I slow even more. Population intrudes.

With a sense of delight, and basking in a glow of accomplishment, I roll into the gas station in Red Bluff at the end of this night road.

The bored clerk looks up from her newspaper with a smile. I pull my gear off and head for the coffee.

Cheers!