Monday, June 9, 2014

Pinkfoot Goes to the End of the World

NOTE: It should probably be mentioned the moto world knows the BF and I as "Hesaid" and "Shesaid."
 If I fail to correct any references-- I cross post these ride reports to a lot of different forums!


January 25,2014:

It all started when Hesaid's mom forwarded us her Best Western Rewards certificate thing-a-ma-jig: $50 off a night's stay at any Best Western if we used it before the end of January? HELLYEAH!

We haven't been to the coast for several years now. We have motorcycles now. And still no signs of Winter in sight.

Plan ON!

The BF began pouring over maps and Google Earth. I figured out how to pack for an overnight trip on Pinkfoot-- which sadly (sniff) does not yet have her own Cycleracks rack. Or any other rack, for that matter.

This would be Pinkfoot's biggest trip. Out of my comfort zone, on hairpin twisties and unpaved roads. *gulp* Time to put on the big girl panties. But I was determined to take the "big" bike on this one!

The BF was pretty surprised I got everything I needed stuffed into one dry bag and securely attached to the back of the DR. I am surprised he was surprised-- you would think he would have noticed all that fancy ultra-light backpacking gear I brought when I  move in with him. THIS girl knows how to pack light!

Based on our Hollister ride back in November, we prepared for an early start and cold temps.

The BF has adopted this "kickstands up at..." philosophy that he picked up from one of the dual sporting moto forum. I HAVE NO IDEA what this means. It makes me crazy.

I ask, "what time do we need to leave?"

He says, "Kickstands up at 8?"

I say, "Kickstand up, WHERE?"

He looks at me like I have lost my mind. Duh! Right? Like the term "kickstands up" is universal.

Well, I don't know if that means leaving the house, or the gas station-- since all our trips begin from the Chevron station a little less than a mile from the house, and all our trips begin with a few warm-up laps around our neighborhood BEFORE we head to the Chevron station.

So which is it? Kickstand up in our driveway? Or kickstands up at the pumps?

Eventually, we agreed on leaving town around 8:30 on Saturday morning. I think we actually got on the road almost on time. (the time stamp on my breakfast photo say 8:22!)

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We swung around the block from the gas station to a local bakery downtown and grabbed some caffeine for me and some sort of Danish/croissant/donut-like product for him. He does not do well without breakfast, and breakfast comes much too early in the morning for me.

Main street doesn't really open till after 9 a.m. in our town, and slightly later on the weekends. It seemed a little strange to me, who works just up the block from the bakery, to be downtown when it's so dead.


By the time I had finished my iced coffee beverage, I had also decided that it was TOO HOT to ride with my wind-proof liner on. So I took a moment to de-gear, strip off the crazy hot jacket, and stuff it under the bungee net with the overnight bag.

Our route out of town took us back to Coalinga for gas stop #2 and over the Parkfield grade again with plans for lunch in Parkfield.

This part of the trip was at least not totally unfamiliar, and it was especially nice to be able to hold my own on the Avenal cut-off road. YAY! Look at me! I'm going 65 miles an hour! Riding the DR is awesome!

This time around it's not that cold to begin with. Plus I was wearing warmer gear and the DR has wind guards on the handlebars. Altogether, it was a pleasant ride and I was feeling comfy when we got to Coalinga for gas.

Snapped a shot of our bikes at the pumps and texted the Moms-- The BF's mom is the last person in America who doesn't have unlimited text messaging AND doesn't get picture messages! I was hoping to make her a little crazy with my photo texts along the way. (evil snickering)

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Off to conquer the Parkfield Grade on Pinkfoot!

I was a little nervous about the 180 degree turns. On the wombat, I can take those things so slowly that I'm in danger of going back in time. Pinkfoot doesn't go as slow as the Wombat-- it's a whole other ride. And heavier too. And has thrown both me and the BF so far. (shhhh, don't tell his  mom!)


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Pinkfoot and I did great. Not even a heart fluttering moment swinging around those curves with the sheer drop off the side!

We were stopped for some photos when a silver Miata with the top down swung around the corner and breezed up to us. A very nice gentlemen with a giant grin on his face pulled up beside us to announce heartily "You can't beat this, can you?!"


Who could argue?

He was completely lost, had no clue where he was or how he was going to get to where he needed to be from there, but he was having the time of his life discovering this new road and enjoying the gorgeous day.

We gave him some information about the road he was on and where it would take him. Told him about Parkfield and let him know that we were headed toward lunch there.

I was hoping we'd meet up with him at the Parkfield cafe and have a chance to talk with him some more-- he just struck me as one of those guys with lots of stories and the talent to tell them.

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He pulled away and headed up the next bend, when he hit the breaks and coasted back to us to tell us he has a BMW GS1200 (ok maybe it's not a GS, maybe it has R's in it, bike models are not my strong suit) then he was off again.

Then the break lights came on again and he coasted back to us one more time to let us know how great it was to see us out there; BOTH of us, riding the bikes, doing it together. He seemd pretty impressed that I was on my own bike.

Then he bade us another fond adieu and the little silver Miata was zipping around those curves, out of sight.

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Isn't it peculiar how much shorter a road can be the second time you ride it? Last time we tackled the Parkfield Grade, it just went up and up and up forever before the pavement ended and we descended into Parkfield proper.

This time the twisties were gone in the blink of an eye and there was the unpaved route stretching out before me, promising lunch in short order.

Remember I don't like riding on dirt? Last time I did this I was on the TW, tearing downhill at blistering speeds of up to 8 miles an hour with engine breaking in 1st gear. This time I was on the DR650, tearing downhill at blistering speeds of up to SEVENTEEN MILES AN HOUR! in second gear (mostly) and EVEN COASTED some!

I have come a long way, baby!

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Parking the bikes in front of the Parkfield Cafe with several other bikes, a little black Ninja zoomed up and stopped to chat. Turns out, it was Tony. Tony reminded me of the guy who sold the BF the DRs. Tony is from San Miguel, he just got the Ninja because it has a really low seat height-- he jumped off and insisted that I hop on to see for myself, mmm-hmmm, low-- we talked about coming over the grade, we talked about the Vineyard Canyon road that would take us to San Miguel, we talked about our plans to get gas in San Miguel... we said goodbye to Tony and went inside for lunch.

As I was standing just inside the door of dining room, trying to determine which table would be our best choice, we were invited to sit and share a table with a couple of guys who had parked their BMWs about the same time we were talking with Tony.

I caught John's name, who was riding with his son. John was sporting a nasty new gash across his hand; informed us that he had just put new boxes on the BMW and hadn't figured out how to open and close them without coming to some injury.

We enjoyed some cheeseburgers and conversation with John and his son. It sure will be nice when WE have a chance to take long rides and see far away places too-- in the meanwhile, we enjoyed listening to them talk about going to Alaska.

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As we were unhitching the trusty steeds, along comes Tony again. He asked if we minded if he tagged along with us on our way to San Miguel.

Now, folks: if you ever meet up with us, and if you ever want to ride with us, do not be under the impression that I am not sociable. In fact, the BF is FAR LESS sociable than I am. I am not trying to brush you off. I genuinely want you to understand that I am not an experienced rider. I am not a fearless rider. I am slow. I am going to go s l o w. Especially if I'm traveling an unfamiliar road. And, I'm going to stop to take pictures along the way.

I don't really consider myself to be much fun to "ride with."

And I am not open to "constructive" criticism. Thus far, seeking riding advise has resulted in a lot of conflicting information, conflicting philosophies, conflicting personalities, and has generally left me with the impression that the only person I'm gonna listen to is Frank Sinatra...or Sid Vicious. :-)

And I'm pretty self-conscious about all this, so I can come off as pretty stand offish.

So I tried to let Tony know what he was in for if he planned to ride with us into San Miguel.

I almost did a good job of keeping up with him too! Until we actually turned on to Old Vineyard Canyon road-- then Tony's red jacket disappeared around a corner for the last time and we were once again left alone on a long, lonely road.

But it was a great road. Exactly the sort of road that lure motorcycles out of their garages to have lunch in a tiny cafe on another tectonic plate.

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It's funny how your imagination can get away from you when you're riding-- well, anytime, really. At one point on Vineyard Canyon, I saw a couple of what appeared to be teenaged kids on a quad with some rifles, on a little farm road across a field.

Being a country mouse myself, my initial thought was, "Good for them, all out there being boys and doing boy things."

Then the dark side of my brain slipped through some sort of Twilight Zone portal into a horror movie and I suddenly wondered, "what if they're not out there plinking at squirrels in the orchards? what if they're some sort of over-the-line Zombie Apocolypse survivalist types practicing their long distance shooting skills on unsuspecting motorcyclists on this road?"

Great. And I am wearing my super bright hi-viz jacket. I'm a PERFECT target.

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Fortunately, real life instances of this sort of story are few and far between-- regardless of what the Internet would lead you to believe-- and I watch too many horror movies.

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Our ride to San Miguel was without incident.

San Miguel was hopping when we puttered through on our hunt for the local Chevron station. (The BF has a penchant for Chevron) It appeared that one of the local eateries was throwing quite the hoosgow and the entire town had driven down to partake. There was a big, mobile bbq grill parked on the street with a thousand succulently seared tri-tips calling my name.

Good thing I was full of cheeseburger still! And there didn't appear to be anything resembling lodging available-- or we might not have made it past San Miguel!

No time to visit the mission. I would have liked to stop by, my fourth grade class did a field trip to the mission back in 1979/80. It remains the only California mission I have visited-- and I think I'd like to see it again some time, now that I have a much better appreciation for history.

Nevertheless-- we had a destination to achieve before sunset. So after gas stop #3, we were back on the road and on our way to Paso Robles via Old River Road.

Somewhere along Old River Rd, I lost my mojo. I don't know if I experienced a blood sugar drop, or just got bored, or what. But riding stopped being fun and started being work. I just wanted to get to the hotel. I wanted to change out of my riding gear, take a nap, get a beer and some dinner, and go to bed. I was close to done.

Then I missed the turn from the sleepy Paso neighborhood that turns into Peachy Canyon. Somehow, when the BF pulled over to tell me, "You want to go back and take 6th this time?" it sounded more like, "How stupid can you be? You missed the F***ing turn."

Which-- of course-- is not how he speaks to me. And is not how he meant it. Because that's a good way to ride your own ride by your own self-- but I was tired and losing my sense of humor.

And Peachy Canyon turned out to be a pain in the butt. It's all twisty and hairpin-y with lots of blind corners. But it's also dotted with a gazillion little cottage wineries offering free wine tasting-- if only the people traveling this road would please come in and taste their wine-- and there was more traffic than I would have liked to share the road with: Local traffic.

Local traffic that travels this road regularly. Travels this road regularly at speeds far in excess of what I am comfortable with.

And it's not like I was taking the road as slowly as I often insist I ride. I was doing a reasonable job of holding the posted speed limits in most stretches. But I was in the way. And I hate being in the way of traffic.

Which did not improve my mojo-less mood.

Peachy Canyon ended at Vineyard-- I think the two "Vineyard" roads are entirely coincidentally named and not actually related to one another. But who knows?

Scary moment #1 came as I put my foot down at the stop sign before making the left hand turn. The ground just wasn't quite where I expected it to be and my foot sort of stuttered to find a good, firm hold. In the process, the bike leaned farther to the left than I would prefer, reminding me clearly of how much heavier the DR is than the TW (almost 100 pounds.) My knee buckled slightly and for 3 terrifying nano-seconds, I thought we going over.

But my knee got straightened up and so did the bike.

Meanwhile, the BF came to the stop, assessed the chance to make the turn, and did so. I would have liked a moment to shake off my little panic moment. The second vineyard was not my favorite road. Too travelled. And the entire time we were on it, I didn't have our route mapped out in my head properly. So I kept looking for Old Creek Rd, without realizing that we needed to hop on a stretch of Hwy 46 first.

So at every cross street, I would slow down a tad to read the sign. Which threw him off because he didn't realize that's what I was doing or why I was doing it. So every time I slowed down, he worried that something had gone wrong.

Well, we came upon Hwy 46 and suddenly I remembered where we were, and how we planned to get where we were going. (Hey, at least this time I made an effort to learn our planned route!)

Old Creek Rd took us into Cayucos on a twisty little road that was mostly fun. From Cayucos, we hopped on Hwy 1 and hightailed it into Morro Bay where we found our hotel, checked in and offered to tuck the bikes under the staircase in order to save on parking spaces for the hotel since they were very busy and had limited parking.

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Finally. I can take off the gear. I can stretch and relax.

All I wanted to do was walk down to the Embarcadero and grab a beer. I really just wanted one beer. Still wasn't very hungry, so maybe I'd get talked into an appetizer or an all-too-cliche-but-still-fabulous breadbowl full of clam chowder, but then I just wanted to come "home" and get to bed early.

We don't watch tv-- haven't for nearly 4 years now-- so maybe some old-fashioned brain-numbing in front of the tv before konking out would have been fun.

That was my plan.

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The last time we were in Morro Bay was around 2010. People were still doing a lot of whining about the economy and blaming it for all their woes-- both real and imagined. We had been walking up and down the Embarcadero at 9 p.m. on a Saturday night and even the bars were closing. Proprietors were saying that with the economy as bad as it was, they just couldn't weren't doing any business.

We thought that was strange since there had been a number of people walking up and down the street looking for places to eat at the time.

But-- shrug.

So it's been about 3 years since we last visited and, no matter how tired I was, we wanted to walk around and see how the little town was doing.

Looks like it's doing just fine: Lots of new businesses. Some of the sort that are always new because people love to open little curio shops by the ocean and then discover that running a business isn't everything they imagined. But lots of new restaurants too. And lots of people out and about. Lots of business.

Just like old times.

We did a lap of the Embarcadero and checked out the new places to eat (and drink) and looked over menus, trying to decide what we would do about dinner.

We ultimately decided there were about 3 places we wanted to eat, so we started at one end of the street and made a plan to do a drink and an appetizer at each place.

We started at Rose's-- which I always think should be "Rose's Cantina" -- and there should be a girl named Felina there whirling... and handsome young cowboys... and shoot outs. Nightly. But whirling Felinas and cowboy shoot outs notwithstanding, the place goes way back in our hearts, so we stopped in for a couple of pints and a shrimp cocktail.

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Our next stop was a new place we had passed on the way. Looked like quite a hoppin' beer pub type place which I'm pretty sure was called "The Libertine." Not only did it look like quite the popular spot, but "The Libertine" just struck me as a great name for a place to go lift pints.

It appeared to be comprised of two bars-- one well-populated room up front, right off the street, and a back room that overlooks the water. We opted for the waterfront view.

We walked past the kitchen, into the rear dining area, and sidled up to the bar, where we sat near another couple of similar (closer to the BF's) age. As we took our seats, the lady of the duet accused her boyfriend of being "embarrassing" and then warned us of same.

I assured her that she hadn't met MY boyfriend yet, but give him some time, he's embarrassing too.

The beer board boasted of several tempting flavors. It was hard to choose. I asked the bartender-- a young woman of the Rockabilly persuasion, with her hair in a kerchief, wearing delightfully "geek chic" glasses and pretty well covered in ink-- if they did samples.

It has taken me some time to accept that most beer joints don't really like to give samples. I understand that some people will just take advantage of the samples and never actually order a pint. But then again, I don't really mind getting charged a nominal fee for the sample-- I really just want to taste some of the more interesting offerings in order to choose the beverage I will order.

"Peaches" had a no-nonsense flair about her. Like a woman who'd been waitressing in a highway truck stop for 40 years. Her tone made it clear she was there to serve me beer-- and charge me for it. I instantly liked her.

She informed us that we could order a "flight" of 4.

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The BF immediately took her up on the deal and order a flight of the first four flavors on the board--  none of which were the two I was interested in trying.

Nevertheless, I ended up with 2 small samples of the vanilla Porter and the Heretic Evil Cousin IPA.

I don't generally go for IPAs, but who can resist at least trying something called "evil cousin," right?

In the discussion of my "not generally going for IPAs," the neighboring couple joined the conversation and insisted that it was good and that's what they were drinking. Which lead to much cajoling about whether or not I was insulting them for not liking IPAs.

The 5 of us had a good time bantering back and forth. I ended up being quite fond of the IPA-- to the tune of 3 pints before the night would end-- Hesaid liked all his sour ciders, but opted for the vanilla porter as his beverage of choice for the evening.

We sat at the bar and talked to each other, we talked with the couple next to us, we talked with the guy with the dreadlocks on the other side of them, we talked to the guy on the other end of the bar, we talked to a guy who was with a group of guys who'd ridden bikes down from the East Bay, we talked to the bartender, we ordered some appetizers, and then another pint, talked some more, cheered the band, contributed to the passed hat for the guy who was moving to Canada...we had a good time.

I didn't want to go back to the hotel to get to sleep anymore. I wasn't so tired anymore. Life was good.

Shortly after we'd arrived, the couple next to us was overheard to be arguing about their bar tab to that point. It was $85 at the point we joined the party. Without too strenuous of eavesdropping, I got the impression that the "embarrassing" young man was not convinced that they had run up a tab quite that high and wanted it itemized for him.

I figured our neighbors would  be moving along in short order-- if they were already unimpressed with their current bar tab, it seemed a good time to close it out. But their debate with "Peaches" quieted down and before I knew it, they were ordering another round for themselves and having a grand time chit chatting with us.

Around the time that the "embarrassing" young man got to the point where he felt comfortable enough to start petting the BF's beard (note: NOT ok,) we decided maybe it was time to turn our attention to other bar patrons, listen to the band for a bit, you know; distance ourselves from our new "friends" lest they get the impression that we're better "friends" than we are.

So the BF turned to the other end of the bar to chat with the older (older than us) couple about their boat and how it's big enough to sleep on, so that makes it a perfectly suitable vacation home for hanging out in Morro Bay on the weekends. Their boat is moored in the harbor and they were nice people-- kinda wish we'd had a chance to hang out with them a little more.

At some point, a round of some sort of apple-y tasting shooters was brought to us. We weren't sure what they were, where they came from, if they were for us, etc. But "Peaches" and the "embarrassing" couple assured us they were for us. We said thank you-- because when someone buys you a round of drinks, you say "thank you."

While we were chatting with the boat-couple, it came to our attention that, on the other side of us, our "embarrassing" new friends were having a very serious discussion with the bartender...and the guy with the dreadlocks (who also worked there,) and maybe a member of the management.

And then they were quietly escorted outside and we didn't have any neighbors on that side of the bar any longer.

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We inquired about the incident. It was pretty obvious that when "Embarrassing Guy" got his bar tab, he felt that it was inaccurate, and refused to sign the credit card receipt.

We offered our sympathies to our new favorite bar maid for having to put up with bad customers-- at some point, back when we were all friends, we had been told that "Embarrassing Guy" and "Peaches" had gone to 5th grade together. I kinda got the impression that maybe "Embarrassing Guy" thought that recognizing a classmate from 25 years ago should have warranted drinking gratis.

Did I mention that "Peaches" was a no-nonsense kinda bartender?

Her names isn't "Peaches" and it's probably not even a nickname. One of the tattoos she was sporting looked to us-- in the dimly lit pub setting-- to be of oranges hanging on the tree. But she informed us that they are actually peaches. Hence, we have decided to call her "Peaches."

One more round for us, some more lively conversation and appreciation of the band... and then the BF decided to get out my cell phone.

The BF is the last living person on earth without a cell phone. I'd like to join him, but it's my primary work #. It is not uncommon at all to go without looking at it once during a weekend for me. But sometimes he likes to snap a photo or shoot off a text to one our buddies.

Unfortunately. The BF is also unable to ignore a ringing telephone or an incoming text message-- I had a text message.

It was from my BFF, and it was bad news. Her brother-- her younger brother-- was diagnosed with liver cancer awhile back. I've been waiting, expecting this news for over a year. But I didn't need to get it after 3 pints of 8% ABV IPA.

So that pretty much brought my evening to a screeching halt. Her little brother has been given less than a year to live, and even though I've known the news was coming, it hit me hard.

Time to close out our tab and head "home."

So poor "Peaches." First she has to toss some customers who are arguing that their bill is too high, and when she gives me my receipt to sign, I squinch up my recently-prescribed-reading-glasses-that-I-didn't-bring-with-me eyes after 3 pints of beer with twice the alcohol volume that I'm used to drinking in the dimly lit bar in order to make out the total-- only to argue with her that OUR bill isn't HIGH ENOUGH!

She assured me that it was correct and I gave her a sidelong glance. But I signed it and gave her a good tip.

Life is short. Too short.

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When the BF woke me up at the delicate hour of 8:30 a.m. I was pretty sure I'd had all of 6 hours of sleep. I felt pretty good-- as long as I didn't move my head too fast. I just can't stay out all night drinking like I used to.

We walked over to the little breakfast place next to our hotel and had a restorative meal of eggs and sausage and I made sure to get my money's worth in coffee refills, while the BF laughed at me and told me we had been in bed before 10 the night before. "No really-- look at your receipt from the bar!"

Yep. Closed the tab out at 9:28p.m.! OH MY! I am getting old!

And we agree that our tab really should have been about $30 higher. We owe "Peaches."

Then we walked back to the hotel, put the riding gear back on, packed up the rest and unlocked the bikes.

Game on!

First, down to the rock for the obligatory pictures. Then a lap of the Embarcadero just to show everyone in Morro Bay that we have bikes.

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The BF was all about a detour to Montana De Oro State Beach-- even though I knew this would be eating into our time budget for getting home before dark. And I'm not a fan of all this uphill/downhill riding. And I'm riding Pinkfoot-- the heavier bike with higher gearing than my beloved Wombat-- I was a little nervous.

It was a lovely ride, but I'm not sure why we went. It's not like we had time to park the bikes and go for a hike or play in the tide pools. If only we had one more day before we had to get home.

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We stopped for gas on our way back through Morro Bay and hit the road, aimed for home.

The BF's planned route home involved a few different roads than our route to the coast. We opted against exploring York Mountain off Hwy 46, but we did take Jack Creek Road to Willow-- which was a GREAT ride. Just beautiful. We both wish we'd stopped to take pictures along Willow.

I had my second "Oh Crap" heart-thumping moment on Peachy Canyon on the way home. I haven't quite settled into the gearing on the DR for taking those hair pin turns; 1st seems too low, 2nd is too high.  I was heading into a left-hand, 180 degree turn going uphill in 2nd. It was the wrong choice and I nearly stalled the bike.

I guess it probably doesn't sound like a scenario that should have incited panic. But I was on an uneven surface, leaning a tad, and going too fast to safely put a foot down. If I'd stalled, there would have been a good chance that I'd have laid the bike over-- on top of me-- falling into a lane of on-coming traffic on a blind curve.

I pulled it off and continued on my way with only a brief moment of terror.


We made it back to San Miguel to find a much sleepier town on Sunday afternoon. Got gas and a snack and stopped in the big parking area that had been full the day before to eat.

San Miguel is devoid of trash cans. It's weird. There were no public trash cans to be found, so we did a tour of the main drag in search of a place to dispose of our empty Pepsi bottle. The BF finally found an unlocked dumpster behind one building and we headed back out of town... only to run into Tony again!

He'd been out on the little Ninja again-- I think he said he'd done 90 miles that day just riding around. We stopped briefly to say hi and bye and headed out.

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There was no talking the BF out of trying the planned detour along "Lowe's Canyon" road. Well... as I understand it, we turned off on "Cross Canyons Road" which turned into "Lowe's Canyon" which turned back into "Cross Canyons" before dumping us back out on Old Vineyard Canyon. ??? I think. All I know is that we turned off that lovely, paved, lazy loopy road to ride along some wash-boardy, sandy road that was made up of sand so white, I had snow-blindness.

And we kept going through (albeit open) gates with cattle guards and signs that said "no trespassing." The BF just continued on through each gate, while I worriedly wondered if we were crossing into private land, or if the signs meant we could ride on the road, but should stay on it?

We were having a good time and stopped to take plenty of pictures on this section of our ride.

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Just after the BF stopped to take this picture as I rode by, I topped the little hill and started a brief descent only to spy a pit of silt on the downhill between me and my destination.

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Crap. That looks scary! And I have to go through it first. And there's no turning around or going around it.

So, naturally, I gingerly made my way down the hill.

The silt turned out to be not too scary and Pinkfoot and I made it to the bottom of the hill without so much as a held breath.

I gather the BF navigated it with less enthusiasm. He blamed me for the silt and has mentioned a few times now that when he reached it, it was obvious how deep it was from my tire marks.

Shrug-- didn't seem that big a deal when I went through it.

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We breezed through Parkfield without stopping, but we waved at all the bikes parked in front of the cafe. No time to stop if we still hoped to get into the valley before dark.

We stopped along the Parkfield Grade for pictures.

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Got into Coalinga for one more gas stop and one more snack. I should have taken the time to put on my neck gaitor and warmer gloves before we left the gas station. But somehow Reason eluded me and I shrugged off the thought with the perfectly logical theory that I had been perfectly comfortable up to this point.

??? I have no idea how that made sense to me at the time. It was obviously late in the afternoon and we probably had 20 minutes till sunset, with our long, straight, 65+ mph stretches in front of us. I really should have put on the warmer gear.

The BF pulled over just after we crossed the I-5 so he could zip up the vents in his jacket. I took the opportunity to put on my neck gaitor and switch gloves.:vardy

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The rest of the ride was uneventful and pretty dark.  We made it home and put the bikes to bed.
This weekend we get to give them baths and oil changes. Then Pinkfoot the DR650 will be officially "broken in."

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