| Will Guyan September '09 |
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A few times a year a horde of felons who don’t always play well together assemble in Tomales with the purpose of pushing the asphalt envelope, usually until something snaps or we get hungry. The ride proceeds north skirting Dillon Beach and joins One in Valley Ford. Boring, but endurable for the roads we’re about to fly. A crumpled back road sneaks past tourist-choked Bodega, where crab and oyster are sacrificed to the gods of tourism. The wiggled highway races north around tourists and steep bluffs, gulches and double yellow switchbacks that invite white-knuckle passing by riders and arrest by the road vampires (who suck the blood out of your wallet). Then, a brief stop for overpriced gas, and the Jenner grade is enjoyed with the gusto of horned Vikings making landfall after far too many days at sea without a Helga. The grade is a carnival ride with breathtaking vistas seldom seen as mouth-breathers focus on almost too-narrow lanes. There’s always a wheel snarling at your rear until the rider passes and you dog him against the onslaught of Winnebagos, Cayennes and diesel Dodges. Hot rubber intimacy with pretty country lanes and the fragrance of the sea: life in Nor Cal. The road forks up the ridge a thousand feet above the sea, on unpainted back roads providing fast fun for fleet fools. The road is like a handful of paper clips thrown in a pile. It twists around the deep and steep gulches on roads too slim for a painted line, with rarely much traffic. This fine sunny morning Spanky the hippie craftsman was out and about with his entourage of silverback Haight-Ashbury ghosts en route to the Golden Temple for some Zen-Buddhic energy and joy. Only he was beset at his rear by this loud and annoying horde snarling at his classic Mercedes’ rusted bumper, on a road too tight to get by. We needed to pass – corners were being wasted! Duck and I at the fore can see Mr. Artisan growing agitated in his rear-view mirror, but he refuses to yield and with the fleet move of a TV cop, throws the 60s crop-duster-diesel sedan sideways and opens his door, blocking our way completely. Can you imagine the stones it takes to face 16 dark-helmeted, raspy riders on 32 smoking wheels? Not me. Spanky was the anti-Buddha, a five-foot-six-inch vortex of venom, hatred flying from his eyes. He got out and roared spittle and ire on the lead guys, Duck and me, until we got around on the right side and away up the redwood-lined lane, leaving the rest to fend for themselves. I think Patrick kicked the Merc’s side door shut as he shot past. Even the normally placid Pig Pen was fighting mad at this guy who had assaulted a whole gang of barely civilized, gas-fired marauders with his flailing arms, kicks and loud threats, until all 16 or so got around him. The guy‘s carotid pressure had to be 125 psi. He yelled he was a volunteer rescue guy and if we needed them, they wouldn’t help us. They were tired of the too-loud, too-fast anti-serenity nuisance that assailed his roads every summer weekend. He swore like a Tunisian sailor, this graying middle aged local, who used to ride pre oil-in-frame Triumphs; who once rode a BSA Goldstar—a Catalina—on one of TT Fred’s long-defunct ‘runs for the money.’ On one of those runs the old Birmingham single let go at the connecting rod and had to be fetched with the old half-ton Ford. How soon we forget; he used to be one of us. During lunch we discussed the event briefly and were able to figure out that some of the locals were just tired of packs of riders who take it to the edge on “their” country roads. Local hero Spanky took it upon himself to let us have it. Take it to the limit. Assault 16 riders with a dented, powder-blue Mercedes belcher from the days of Soupy Sales and Lyndon Johnson. Surely a little Buddha and some yoga posturing would assuage the hatred of his dynamic attack, and he’d again be the picture of serenity - once we passed. Well, he surely did teach us a lesson: get thee quickly by on the back roads and trust nobody, because they just might be bellicose locals gunning for Sunday morning Pirelli-shod hooligans! I won’t bore you with the oaths hurled Pacific-wise from the wharf deck that day last January. Even normally mild-mannered Ray said, “That could have gone badly.” And so it goes, my friends, and may it ever be so. His road? Indeed. |