And make us lose the good we oft might win,
By fearing to attempt.”
-William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure
Friday 2.19 - the plan is to leave at 10am. That was the plan. The reality is that Ethan’s memorial celebration lasted a lot later than anticipated and sleep did not come as quickly as thought. I’m glad it didn’t. After the party had moved from the house in Burbank and the crowd migrated to The 5th, I had made a last minute decision to join the crew for one last toast. I was going to go to bed. I was going to get some sleep. Ha. The decision to stay a bit later and get a bit later start on the road is one that will never be regretted. There is a lifetime to get enough sleep, to be 100% of your game. Opportunities that are meaningful to one and one’s friends don’t come around as often as they should and most of us pass them up, taking the opportunities for granted. No more.
Eventually I leave at 11…ish after saying thank yous and goodbyes and having a cup of coffee that Juliet diligently brews every morning at 8 o’clock. Juliet, you have been my savior. On to the first stop: San Diego. Staying off the L.A. super-slabs(Interstates), I cruise a couple of side streets until reaching Sepulveda Boulevard, which delivery me to
Santa Monica Boulevard and the Santa Monica coast line at the Pacific Coast Highway. This is the start and will be the end point of this adventure (little did I know that it’s also the beginning of historic Rte 66, which will be the final chapter of this saga after I’ve completed the perimeter) and I take a moment to reflect and grab a picture of the intersection where dreams collide. Water on the right… Cruising along the coasts, the Pacific rides as my sidecar. A Salty breeze floats gently into my nose as I finally get it. This is the beginning. This is what it’s about. The PCH winds and wiggles its way down the California coastline giving it an endearing and innocent outline, much like that of a child trying to fill in a coloring book. There’s no hurry here, no place to be. The first stop is San Diego, but there is only a timeframe, no deadline. A smile creeps in. This is what I’ve been looking for. Overused phrases and corporate jargon start to shift and transform into more appropriate meanings. Touch base means that I physically put my hands on the Alamo or some other national monument. Circle back is what happens when I miss my turn (this happens often as all my senses are overwhelmed by the complete inundation of stimulus surrounding me). Parking lot is the place I will drop my kickstand. Clarity are the moments I have while being surrounded by 360 degrees of sunset in the middle of a vast desert. This initial leg of the journey is going to take a while, even though it could be done in 3 hours.
Wanting to stay true to PCH, I have bouts of infidelity as roads closer to the ocean deem more attractive. Riding down Pacific Avenue to Venice Beach, the bridges have too much history to pass up a photo op. Calling these side-quests delays would be a misnomer as on this trip there is no such thing as a delay. Jumping back on the PCH, LAX goes by in the obnoxious blur that it is and it’s time to stop for gas in El Segundo. Rolling out of the station, I touch my leg several times as I span the next few miles, making sure my wallet is back in my jeans pocket. It is.
Here’s that wandering eye again. PCH, you know I love you, but I think we should see other people. Departing the one that should be guiding me, Palos Verde Boulevard bats her eyelashes and beckons me to ride the ocean’s overshadowing cliffs. For those of you that have seen the movie “What Dreams May Come,” the ride is as if I’ve stepped into an artist’s rendering. More beautiful, lush and brilliant than real life could possibly be. Bluff Cove offers up a vista worthy of any camera, but only few cameras are worthy of it. Mine, not so much. Looking down the cliffs at the surfers hundreds of feet below, nothing can pollute this picturesque moment. Wrong. Taking the last of my snaps and hearing a ruckus behind me, I turn around to find a couple of oily bohunks in denim flexing their pharmaceutical grade biceps while being photographed by a very eager photographer. Gay porn? Wrangler’s 2011 Calendar? Or the next batch of a 13 year old girls bedroom posters? The answer is it’s time to ramble on. Sorry ladies, no pics… next time, I gotchyo back. A historic lighthouse (take a pic), the San Vicente bridge (take a pic),
a flock of seagulls (take a pic), an oil field (take a pic), roll with a Ferrari for 10 miles (no pic), getting turned around more times than P-Diddy’s identity (GPS phone is a LIFE SAVER) and five and a half hours later brings me to Oceanside, where the PCH is under construction (No Road Through) and it’s getting dark. Given there is still about 50 miles left in the day, I-5 looks mighty inviting, so I roll the dice to quickly get to Mission Trails/Kumeyaay Lake campground outside of San Diego. Come on. Test me. I dare you. Just kidding, you don’t have to call my bluff. Sh!t. To say the I-5 at night is a hellacious experience is an understatement, but proves to be a necessary one and I’m glad to get this under my belt early in the trip. Nearing the highway that leads to the campground, I decide to pull over for a quick fill. When I pull up to the station, there is an extremely friendly kid of about 25 selling some sort of auto polish. Miguel is a former serviceman/motorcycle rider, but was discharged due to an unfortunate accident involving a wheelie at 55 mph and a rogue gust of wind. About to be shipped to Afghanistan, Miguel was perhaps spared a worse fate. He is a mere glimpse of the unique and intriguing individuals that will cross my path on this journey.
Rolling into the campground at Mission Trails, I am greeted by a friend that reaches back to middle-school extending a much needed cocktail. Rustie and I exchange hugs and smiles and then it’s to the dirty task of setting up camp in the dark. This proves to be a fairly easy task, as the tent is a 2-pole set-up with a rain fly. Very simple, very roomy (surprisingly), very nice, I like. The tent works out perfectly as its misleadingly spacious interior leaves room for my Thermarest and sleeping bag, a corner for my duffle with gear, a corner for boots and shoes, an office to hold a backpack which doubles as laptop stand, with enough room left over for a the jetboil kitchen. Surprise doesn’t even begin to cut it. Thanks for the tent dad, nice work. The fire crackles as conversation flows as smoothly as the rum and cokes do and before long, tales of the past, present and future all intertwine into a great night. The stroke of midnight comes quickly and with it drops of rain that serves as a warning that they’re bringing reinforcements. An easy decision to rack out for the night, we go to our respective tents and welcome the sandman. The static-like sound of raindrops on the tent begins to hasten and intensify and worry of a leak sets in. Wet gear is no fun, as any camper will tell you. Fortunately for me, the tent’s defenses hold. Rustie isn’t as lucky as her tent crumbles like the Alamo and she retreats to the sanctuary of her car.
Tap dancing across the rain-fly, the drops lift me out of a deep slumber and I lay there looking out the door for a solid two hours taking in the breeze, the mountains and the beauty. Once the weather breaks (or so we think), it’s determined that a quick hike around Kumeyaay Lake is a must. A muddy hike complete with overflowing river, the views warrant a deep breath and a gasp escapes as icy rain drops fall down the back of my neck. Back to camp and then on to lunch with my bro before he ships to Afghanistan. When on a journey of this magnitude and having the last lunch with your brother for an easy six months, where do you go? Dave N Busters, of course. Arriving a bit late, I meet with Jon, who is eagerly awaiting my arrival for some grub. We have a great lunch, catch up and then say our “see you laters and good lucks” as we both turn and walk towards two experiences that will burn deeply within us for the rest of our lives. USMC Jon Rutter – we’re proud of you, thank you for all you do for this country.
The Philly cheese steak settling in for a nap, we make our way over to Balboa Park in San Diego to meander through gardens, art, culture and architecture. Starting out at the Big Tree and strolling through pathways that resemble a Candyland board, flora seems to reach out to try and engulf you to make you an everlasting part of their natural beauty. Passing stone work on the sides of ornately carved Spanish architecture, faces glare out grimacing and twisting at passersby eternally etched and never changing. The buildings, statues, art and culture take one to a place beyond this country’s borders. 
El Cid hovers above all, mightily raising his flag as his stallion snorts and lifts a hoof in courage and pride. Walking away in the path of his gaze, I round a corner to find an old saxophone player under a street light. The jazz is smooth and delicious and immediate recognition of reasons for this trip are noted as the music melts into the air around us. Each note is an alarm clock for another goose bump. This is America at its best. The last image seen while leaving Balboa Park is a towering and undeniable banner of Darwin. Proper. This is the evolution of me. 
The day ends with a trip to a friend’s house for some cocktails (of which I pass on) and board games. The games never took off, but the conversation between myself and a couple name Mark and Emily did. Having been travelers since 2007, after selling all their possessions and giving up their corporate way of life, they packed up an RV and started touring the country. Eventually the been-there-done-that thoughts around the RV began to creep in and they decided to purchase a sailboat and make the waves their home for 6 months. A travelers inspiration, they have sage advice, a warm attitude, but never forget common sense and safety that is needed for such adventures. Roadslesstraveled.us will take you on their journey, should you care to get on board.
It’s time to get on two wheels again and an 8am wake-up is met with drying out tents, tarps and other gear. The going is slow and I vow to become more efficient in both time and space while packing. One stop remains between me and the open road: REI. After getting lost for around 45 minutes and just about as many miles, REI peaks its logo from around a turn and all is good. Picking up some jetfuel, fire starters I walk out of the store to find a bratwurst stand. An old hippie had a tent outside of the store and welcomes me under it to dry and warm myself by the grill. “Get under the tent and grab some fire, it’s cold and wet out here today.” Taking down the sumptuously grilled cased meat, I wash it down with a Pepsi and walk over to my bike. Given my turnarounds, misdirection and wasted time, I opt not to ride down to the places I’ve seen before (Pacific Beach, Coronado Island and Tijuana), but rather kick it into gear and get on I-8 to ride east. The rain cloud that seems to be perpetually following me, checks in with a wink and I suit up. Now, the only thing standing between me and the desert are the mountains of I-8.
I’m riding south and east…the weather will get better. Wrong.
I-8 leads right into a rain cloud, making me feel as if I’m going into the lost city of Shangri La. No such luck. Instead of gold, prosperity and other mythical enticements, I find rain, cold and yes, even snow. With the narrow mountain passes giving no leeway for a pullover, I’m forced to fight it out to the next exit and the rain settles in and my clothes soak up the water like a Trekkie soaks up the aroma of Captain Kirk’s dirty unitard. Wet, wetter, wettest. Cold, colder, f@cking freezing. Finally the small town of Pine Valley shows itself and allows me to not only change my clothes and put on my rain suit, but also to capture the previously elusive Zippo fluid, so that like all men, I may make fire. Climbing further into the mountains brings a dense fog that Scooby Doo would take pleasure in making tasty donuts out of. Yet another test of the obstacles that will be thrown at me, I fight the fog with extreme caution, the visibility no more than 100 yards. Knowing there are only a few miles left until I descend and reach the desert floor, an end is in sight. The helmet’s face shield collects rain eagerly and it gives me a sense of relief when I figure out that when moving my head left or right, the wind acts as a natural windshield wiper.
The mountains belch me out into the Yuha desert and I am immediately slapped in the face by a gust of hot, dry air. A welcome respite as I take off the rain gear and prepare to dry out. The Yuha desert is a beautiful wasteland, arid and sunny, seemingly endless. Goodbye hypothermia, hello warmth. Cruising along at a comfortable speed that only a desert highway can allow, every last drop of moisture is sucked into the awaiting atmosphere. Ditching I-8 for Hwy 98, to ride closer along the California-Mexico border, the feelings of angst and ambition for a better life reach out from the south, an undeniable presence. Border patrol is everywhere, storm troopers on a sea of sand, they post every ¼ mile or so scouring the land below us for those that dare to become like us. Passing through Calexico is non-eventful and some miles later, I enter a place very much resembling Tatooine. The rest area sign says “Welcome to Imperial State Park.” Oh yeah…where they filmed Star Wars (hold for nerd applause – my own included).
Making my way through the final miles of the desert to Yuma I’m sand blasted by winds strong enough to resemble an aged Buster Douglas; not so much scary, but one would still rather not have to deal with it. Yuma’s entry comes late and I smile at the Welcome to Arizona sign. One thing unknown is that Yuma is an RV Mecca and tent camping seems nonexistent. Given the hour and limited options, Motel 6’s inviting blue sign lures me in for some much needed rest.
Next blog post: Yuma to Las Cruces, Arizona travels.
“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I will forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart.”
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