The Crest

I did something today I haven’t done in a long time…I went for a motorcycle ride. By myself. Just for the enjoyment of it. It was awesome.

Nearly every motorcycle ride I’ve taken in the last 10 years has been leading a tour, or gathering info and photos for a magazine article, or testing a motorcycle for CSC or Zongshen. I had not hopped on a motorcycle just to rack up miles by myself in, well, I don’t know how long.

Today didn’t start out as a solo ride. I led a group of 15 riders from CSC to the Mt. Wilson Observatory this morning. I had done the Mt. Wilson tour about a month ago and I didn’t want to do it again so soon, so I thought I would just ride home by myself.

But I didn’t. I rode down Mt. Wilson Road alone, not worrying about who was behind me and who was and who wasn’t keeping up. I looked out to my left and I saw the whole of the LA basin, with Los Angeles itself protruding proudly from perhaps a thousand square miles of suburban sprawl. I’d never seen it like that before. I was tempted to stop for a photo, and then I realized: I wanted to capture the image with neurons instead of electrons (and I did). When I got to the bottom of Mt. Wilson Road where it intersects Angeles Crest Highway, I turned right instead of left. I wanted to go for a ride, and the 55-mile jaunt across the Angeles National Forest was just what the doctor ordered.

I brought my Nikon with me, but in a departure (for me, anyway) I didn’t take any photographs with it. I just wanted to ride. The Nikon stayed in its case, tucked away in my left saddlebag.

I rode through Charleton Flats and then Chilao Flats. I remembered from an  article I wrote that Chilao Flats was named for a horse thief who kept his ill-gotten gains hidden in this area. Cool stuff.

I loved it. It was just me, my motorcycle, and the mountains. It was warm today, but it was comfortable. Warm enough to suppress the pine scent that usually permeates this area (I missed that), but not so warm that it was bothersome.

Newcomb’s appeared and I pulled in for breakfast. I grabbed a seat at the bar and I could see my motorcycle while I ate. All right, one photo, if you insist…my healthy breakfast courtesy of my iPhone (I told you, the Nikon stayed in its case today).

Like always, my RX3 drew a crowd. You have to appreciate the scene…uber-expensive BMW GS motorcycles just back from the Starbucks wars, $40K Harley CVO monstrosities (loud pipes save lives, you know), Ducatis out the gazoo (loud clutches save lives, they say), and here was my little 250cc Chinese motorcycle attracting all the parking lot attention. Seeing it from the perspective of a Newcomb’s barstool halfway through one of the most glorious rides in the world was a treat (almost as good as the berries in that fabulous breakfast). The folks around my RX3 were clearly intrigued. Maybe it was the motorcycle. Maybe it was the tank decals showing where I had been on that little 250. And my bike doesn’t have any stickers from the Colombia or China rides.  If they only knew.

The barmaid was loud, telling another customer about a recent head-on collision between a Guzzi and a Harley that killed the guy on the Guzzi. I’m guessing she doesn’t ride. We don’t like to talk about such things. Guys go too fast up here sometimes. I’m not one of them. I learned the hard way…physics always wins.

After eating, it was back on the road, letting the miles roll by to Wrightwood. I passed through two tunnels, with signs advising the next mile was a Bighorn sheep area. I didn’t see any, but it was cool knowing they were out there. Then another sign advising of eagles. More cool and comforting facts. I continued northeast, and I realized the road was now descending. The mighty Mojave desert was in front of me, and I caught glimpses of its expanse through the pine trees.

I put a cool 150 miles on my motorcycle this morning, and I loved every one of them.  I need to do this more often.