North America: Riding a 21 year old Goldwing: 42 - The Southern Oregon Coast, The Giant Redwoods & Humboldt County, and my Thousand Dollar Day

After leaving Wayne, Linda and John and getting back on the road, I rode along the coast on a beautiful sunny day with nice weather and lots of scenery. Shortly after riding South on the 101, I came across another lighthouse in Oregon. I've now seen lighthouses on both coasts, the Great Lakes, and in Alaska.

Once back on the road, I jumped off the 101 to go even further West on some county roads and came across a neat way to get to Bandon, Oregon; a town that many people had told me was a "must visit" kind of place.

The Oregon coast is so beautiful.

Not the Charleston that I know...

Another amazing lighthouse!

Right along the coast, I saw a couple of cops sitting at a make-shirt weigh station and there weren't any truckers stopped, so I pulled over to ask if they'd weigh my bike. Turns out, they were just there checking log books, but told me of a place with a digital scale just before the CA border. I found it and pulled my bike on the scales to check the weight.

Many bikers had understandably scowled when I told them I was riding a 1,000 pound bike. Most bikes weigh between 500 & 600 pounds, so even loaded down, 1,000 sounds like a bit of a stretch. My bike weighs nearly 800 empty. In this picture, my fuel tank is 1/2 empty. Two of my three water bottles are empty. My food bag (the orange one) is full of freeze dried food, unlike the bulk of the trip during which I had a dozen or so cans of food. Along the Al-Can, I had two cans of fuel strapped to my floorboards.

Clearly, the bike weighed in at over a half-ton for the bulk of the trip. Now, at a few pounds shy of 1,000, it was still close enough for me to be comfortable in referring to the Old Wing as "my 1,000 pound motorcycle."

Here, the scale switched between 950 & 1,000. With me on it, it read 1,100 or 1,150. So, for those who wondered if a motorcycle can really weigh 1,000 - here's your proof.

It's a beast of a bike. Not bad for a guy that barely weighs a buck-sixty-five, and then, only after riding in the rain and eating a trucker's breakfast.

During the entire trip, I'd always planned to avoid CA. Visiting NAPA and riding the mountain road through vineyards had been appealing, but I'd firmly decided against it. So why visit Cali-for-ni-yea now?

Remember Walt from Seiku? At one point, Walt asked me if I was going to CA. I said "no." My reason for skipping the big state was that I didn't want to sit in traffic. My answer didn't suit him, so he replied: "Do you know what you'll see if you end up in California traffic?" "No" "Then you need to go there and see for yourself."

"Why" I asked? He replied: "Hey man, it's California. You've got to go to California."

I liked his answer better than mine, so I decided to ride into Northern California. Sure glad I did.

I spent the night in Humboldt County, on the beach and overlooking the Pacific. Sunset was spectacular and I enjoyed it while enjoying a local brew. After dark, I went back to my camp for dinner. There were about ten tents nearby, but I finished eating before setting off to meet people.

The first people I met were a couple from Arcata. He'd moved about two days ago, and her two weeks ago. Him from Oregon and her from further South in Northern CA. They were so friendly and we compared our recent travels though Oregon. I offered them each a beer and they gave me some food and shared their campfire.

Then I hung out with a group of guys who took a long weekend to camp along the coast. They were psyched to hear about my trip and were complementary about the Old Wing. Not bad for a group of young guys that were into raisin' hell on sportbikes.

While breaking camp, I talked to a guy named Ali who was there with his girlfriend and infant. They were in a bad place. He was a glass-blower who'd been robbed and lost his glass blowing equipment. She had a nice Volvo, but with the windows broken out from the recent robbery, it needed repair. I said goodbye and left $10 on their windshield, the requisite fee for another night of camping on the beach. I'd realized that they were living out of their car and could only camp if they came up with $10. Ali told me to go to Garberville and gave me the name of someone who'd let me camp at their farm. The tip would save me money and so I felt comfortable in giving the guy some money. Just because I'm nearly broke, doesn't mean that I can't share. Too many good things have happened to me on this trip to be stingy.

The folks from the night before had told me to go to Arcata and hang out. It's a cool town and certainly was good to me. All of my clothes were filthy and I didn't want to show up smelly to Garberville, so I set off in Arcata to find a cool place that sold t-shirts. Perhaps a bar, coffeeshop, a restaurant, etc.

The first person I talked to said to go to a grocery store. They had cool t-shirts with a slogan for a dog park. Nice! There were no Large's left. I bought some bread and cheese for breakfast and the girl at the register recommended a coffee shop. No shirts at the coffee shop, but the girl there sent me to a novelty shop around the corner. They had great shirts. However, I was in the market for a cool ten dollar T. Not a $20 shirt. The girl there sent me to Wildwood Music. But not before she told me about Ferndale. Ferndale is a Victorian town. All the buildings are old and very Victorian. Before I left she said: "Go to the cemetery. You've got to go. You've made it this far and you must see it."

The way the trip's been going as of late, when someone tells me somewhere to go, I don't question it. Everything keeps getting better and better and I've not had any bad experiences. Now, it seems that every experience is somehow related to a previous one. There is a big circle-of-life that seems to connect my various experiences regardless of which state I'm in.

Off to the music store. That's where I met Greg. He didn't have any left, but did have a few topics of conversation that he thought we should discuss. After about 45 minutes of interesting conversation, he told me about Blue Lake CA and the Logger Bar. If I needed a place to stay, I should ask for Brenda. She'd get in touch with Dan and Dan knew a place where I could crash on the couch. I thanked Greg, but insisted that I needed to stay about 400 miles away from Arcata, not 40 miles. Oh well. Back on the road, still smelling like, well - like someone who's been riding in California without stopping to change clothes.

Ferndale is really pretty and the cemetery was unique and very interesting. Glad I went.

The trip to Ferndale took me way off the beaten path and I managed to ride for over 100 miles with no direction along tiny roads that certainly weren't on my map. Following the sun, I popped back out on the 101 a couple of hours later.

The atlas and road signs both pointed to the Redwood Park and off I went. The "Avenue of the Giants" is spectacular.

I love snow skiing and live to ski in the trees. Riding through the forest was as close to tree-skiing as anything I can imagine. I was one with the bike and one with the road. Trees came right up to the edge of the road and there was but one line to ride to navigate the giant deciduous trees.

The ride was memorizing. Positively enchanting.

The pictures below give an idea of what it's like to float down the road while riding such an unusual stretch of blacktop.

The view from the top...

Another deer in the road. I'd rather watch for Moose, Elk, Caribou, or Bear than for deer.

Check out this bridge! Keeping the bike steady on a 20 inch wide path isn't that hard, but it's mentally challenging. Like walking a plank that's been raised to many feet above ground level. It's easy to do, except when the stakes are raised. Hitting the side of the planks would have been unpleasant for sure.

I got off the Avenue of the Giants to follow a little road that I'd first thought to be a driveway. What a great ride! I rode for a couple of hours and it was the most demanding, challenging, and exciting riding of the trip. Every corner was blind. Two cars had to stop to pass each other. The road was never more than a lane-and-a-half wide. The road surface was like sandpaper and irregularities were the norm. It was intense. After an hour and a half, I was physically tired and mentally drained. I was ready to be back on regular roads.

Finally, I arrived in Garberville and stopped for fuel before going to find Ali's friend.

My bag was gone! The yellow bag that Bill from Fairbanks had given me contained all of my riding gear. It was gone!

I fueled up and went to re-ride the road that I'd been so eager to leave only a few minutes earlier. As I retraced my route, I realized that where ever the bag came off, there were few places on the road where it would be retrievable. The entire road ran along a cliff. Steep cliffs that would be hard to traverse, but even harder to spot something lost. Even if the lost item were in a bright yellow bag. After four hours of searching, I had to admit that my stuff was gone.

My Arai flat-black helmet. New and expensive.

My Leather Vest with Patches from the Evel Knievel days in Butte Montana. The only thing I'd bought for myself on this trip.

My armored pants. They are waterproof.

My postcards. Dozens of postcards from places along the way.

The gift for my good friends Allison. She was keeping my dog while I traveled and I'd spent hours and hours finding the right gift. Now it was gone.

Patagonia Layers - ten year's worth of fleeces. My fleece vest. My fleece pants. My fleece pullover. All gone.

This SUCKS!

I was two thousand miles from home and was no longer prepared to ride in the rain or in the cold.

I thought I might be sick.

I was sick on the inside.

I did the math on the value of my stuff. Over $1,200. Most of it was stuff that I'd only had a few months. Stuff that should have lasted a lifetime.

There was a bar in town and I went there to talk to people. The girl there told me about a bike rally 100 miles away. Live music, lots of camping and fun. I was too pissed off to hang out with bikers. Bikers with gear. Bikers who weren't cold because their stuff was gone.

It was getting dark. Dusk had almost left the California Coast. I really needed to have a good night. Alone and in a tent on a night like this sounded like hell.

I broke my rule about riding in the dark and got on the 101 and rode North. It was cold. My head was cold; now was the time for the full face helmet. My legs were cold. Wranglers are only good down to about sixty degrees.

I rode for nearly two hours and was shivering uncontrollably. Ahead was Blue Lake - I finally stopped to ask how about the Logger Bar. It was too cold to find it without asking for directions.

When I got off my bike, I looked up and saw a huge guy standing there and looking at me like he was looking at something he didn't see everyday. My old Wing was loaded down, I was moving like a rickety old man. When I got off my bike I was shaking from the cold. Damn that guy is huge! I spent my day among the Giant Trees. I wondered if everyone in Blue Lake is seven feet tall like this guy.

"Can I help you?"

For the first time on my trip, I was at a loss for words. I'd reached into my back pocket for my little notebook and was fumbling through it, looking for my notes from the conversation with Greg. I stammered "I.... I met Greg... I'm looking for..." ...

...man, I've had a bad day. I'm back from Alaska after riding from North Carolina. It's been a bad day. Greg said...."

He interjected: "hey man... clam down. Everything's cool. Just calm down."

I tried my best. I cocked my neck back to look up and look him in the eye. "I met Greg at the music store and he told me I could crash here, but I needed to come to this bar and find a lady who'd call this guy who'd show me some house.

I looked down and resumed fumbling through my notebook.

He said: "Greg told you to find Brenda. Brenda would call Dan, Dan would take you to the Farmhouse."

I looked up...stunned.

He continued: "This is Dan" As he pointed to a guy who'd just walked out.

Wow -

We introduced ourselves. Peter dropped everything to hang out with me. To introduce me to people. To calm me down and help me forget about having lost my gear.

Peter is about my age, maybe a few years older. Turns out, he's not seven feet, but "only" 6'10.

He had a lot of friends out that night and certainly didn't need to help out a traveler in distress, but he instantly saw that I was in a bad place and needed help. After fifteen minutes talking with him, I felt great. Almost like my pre-loss self.

After making the rounds inside, a group of guys came out to check out the Goldwing. One guy asked to sit on it.

"Sure"

He got on, but I kept my hands on the bike. "I've got it he said" The biked was precariously balanced on a downward-sloping porting of the road. "I don't got it - I don't got it" he said shakily. I grabbed the bike and he got off. He was amazed at how heavy it was. "How do you do it" he asked?

"At over 20 mph, it's nothing. At slow speeds and while parked, well... sometimes it's scary."

(Really scary without the proper protection and riding gear, I thought)

Peter got on. I held the bike. "I've got it" He quietly said.

Oh yeah, he's tall, I thought. Holding up a motorcycle with long legs is easy. I thought back to the guy I met with Aaron & Kevin in Whitehorse. The guy from CA who was riding a Wing with his wife. He'd ridden all the tough roads in Alaska and was on his way back. I'd asked him about his riding style, because, with his height, riding a motorcycle was easy. He understood my question and described his style. It was just like mine. If the bike is moving, feet go on the pegs. He had really made me feel comfortable about my then upcoming ride over The Top of the World Highway.

After a beer with the guys, Peter got his car so I could follow him the few hundred yards to the place where I was going to spend the night.

The guys at the house were all nice and fine with me staying there. Turns out, Dan has a cat that is quite the showman.

My buddy Paul from Flyball in NC has a Jack Russell Terrier that would play-fight. The dog sounds like half-starved Junkyard Dog who is facing someone trying to take away a plate full of food. He snarls and growls and snaps his teeth. All on command and all for fun.

Dan's cat does the same thing. Dan and his cat put on quite a show for me. It was hilarious! After he went to bed, I went to my bike and got my camera so I could take a picture of the cat. I like cool cats.

The Farmhouse in the morning.

It was cold at 8:00 am when I left Blue Lake. The ride was beautiful, though I was preoccupied with the thought of riding 10,000 more miles without a full helmet or riding pants.