Tam sure it happened as easily as this: We were sitting around the garage shooting the bull during a cold winter snap. Thoughts turned to motorcycle rides and things spring and summer. For once, it wasn’t me. Mrs. K was the one to mention going to California. We hadn’t taken a trip the summer before, and she said, “We ought to ride to California and take the PCH along the coast. ” Probably, no one jumped up and started packing, but several certainly starting thinking. One mention leads to another mention which leads to final plans. For me, it was a dream I have had since I watched Then Came Bronson and spent my time reading On the Road.
For all of us, we researched the trip and found places and things we wanted to see. Soon, the time to depart had arrived. Some weren’t sure; some were absolutely sure. The same can be said for Sturgis. The crowd going in January is a vastly different crowd then the crowd at the end of the driveway in August. I have started saying, “We’ll see who is at the end of the driveway on Friday. ” For this trip, we had a band of five riding four bikes. Pigeon Whisperer and KP on a ’07 Streetglide, Habs on a 2014 Ultra, Mrs. Kon a ’07 Ultra, and me, Kubob, on a ’14 Ultra.
Both Habs and I were pulling pop-up trailers. We were sitting at a barbecue dinner when a friend asked, “What was the best thing from the whole trip? ” Tough question, very tough question. The travelers sitting at the table kind of looked at each other and shrugged, but each of us mentally reviewed the events and placed them on a list. We crossed mountains, rode in rain and hail, faced 102 degree temperatures in the desert, 40 degree nights on the coast, crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, road the PCH right on the coast, ate fresh fish on two wharves, and on and on and on.
So many possibilities. 3900 miles of bests. Still, how do pick only one? For me, the best didn’t emerge until after I had some time to reflect on the whole ride. It involved reflecting on the events and talking about the trip with the others. It involved establishing a hierarchy of events and disassembling and reassembling the list in different orders with different reasons for each list. Does a fresh seafood dinner served by another 60year old guy named Steve in the Sandbar trump watching a bum sort through the trash at the Crab Shack?
Does walking on the pier at San Simeon go before or after being hit by hail at 65 miles per hour? Does the Pigeon Whisperer walking a hundred pigeons across a park in Chinatown outweigh getting chewed out for being tourists by the lady on the cable car? One of the best aspects of riding a motorcycle is that you have so many miles to think. Undisturbed thinking about lists and which experience does indeed trump the others. For me, it became clear that crossing the Golden Gate Bridge on my bike was the pinnacle, the defining experience, of the entire trip.
As someone said, it was an iconic moment. California is a long state, and we reached San Francisco after 400+ miles of riding on the PCH/CA-1/101. We stayed in Monterey, and our goal was to reach the KOA campground in Petaluma, CA which is north of San Francisco the next day. Monterey to Petaluma was far from the longest stretch of the trip. The stretch from Monterey to the Golden Gate was longer than the stretch from the Golden Gate to Petaluma. We had more time to anticipate the crossing than we did in reflecting on the crossing. The bridge, as all bridges are, is a choke point.
The traffic builds and tightens until you cross; your anticipation does the exact same thing. It builds and tightens as you approach and cross. Then, just like crossing your mind frees to consider the experience you just had. Our crossing was on a beautifully sunny day. You could see forever. As we approached the bridge, the city closed in as we rode through the exurbs, suburbs, and city. You can tell you are in San Francisco by the hills you face getting to the bridge. Fortunately, the 101 seemed on a ridge, and you can see the streets descend to either side, or so it felt to me.
The signs for the Bridge increased in frequency and directed us without error. As the blocks clicked by, the traffic got closer and tighter until we were in bumper-to-bumper traffic five-lanes across all heading to the Golden Gate. The lanes merged, the traffic tightened. We were in Golden Gate Park, I think. We could see the support towers for the bridge standing above all else. Finally, a slight dip, short curve, and we were climbing up the bridge. People were walking on the right. I moved into the right lane so I could see more. The massive cable that supports the bridge started to climb to the top of the first tower.
We were on the bridge leaving San Francisco behind and heading to the Marin Highlands. Beneath was the Pacific Ocean, only engineering was holding us up. You could see Alcatraz to the right. We weren’t able to get tickets for Alcatraz, but there is was on a beautifully clear day. A glance over my right shoulder revealed Fisherman’s Wharf and downtown San Francisco. Over my left shoulder was the Pacific Ocean, miles and miles of ocean. Above me stood the giant towers holding the whole operation. I was surrounded by cars, and trucks, and bikes, and pedestrians. All I wanted to do was stop.
I wanted to stop right in the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge, put my kickstand down, and get off my bike. I wanted to stand right on the bridge and pump my fists in the air like I was Rocky after making it to the top of the stairs. That was the moment of the trip that signified the entire thing. Everything before lead to that moment; everything after was homeward bound. I thought it might be the Bixby Bridge; it wasn’t. It was the Golden Gate, and the traffic, the view, the ocean, the people, my friends, and my bike made it the special moment it ultimately became. It was, as Joe noted, “an iconic moment. “