Day 1

I was awake at what felt like an ungodly hour because we had to be up, checked out of our Santa Monica motel and be waiting at the Crown Plaza Hotel (20 minutes by cab if no traffic) in order to be picked up by Moturis (the hire company) at 7AM. Luckily we had spent a relatively quiet Friday night. For me, the jet lag (and the fact that I was bursting with excitement) worked in my favour since I had been awake in bed for ages anyway.

Michael from Moturis arrived only slightly late to pick us up. We were the last on his pickup route. The others in his minibus all looked like RV customers. Perhaps sensing my excitement, he kindly processed us first when we arrived at the Moturis offices in West Compton.

The paperwork didn’t take too long. Moturis stored our main luggage and we just kept enough for the four days’ bike riding. At last we were waiting in the Moturis car park while Michael produced the bikes. I had arranged a Honda CBR1100XX “Super Blackbird”. Warren had ordered a Harley of some kind, which turned out to be unavailable, but was replaced by a virtually new (600 miles on the clock) Dyna Wide Glide.

The Honda was a 98 model, carburetted, with some 28,000 miles on the clock and a fairly early incarnation of Honda’s loathed linked braking system. It had clearly experienced a small drop but looked in generally sound condition if rather well used. The rear tyre was worn pretty square, but otherwise things looked good. It had an excellent set of lockable Givi panniers fitted, which came as a nice surprise - I had been expecting to have to use my small backpack. I had chosen the Blackbird because it was the closest bike that Moturis had to my own everyday bike at home.

The Harley was a 2000 Dyna Wide Glide. I think it had the “Twin Cam” engine but I didn’t pay much attention and I don’t know much about Harleys, so can’t be certain. It had the ubiquitous soft leather panniers. We tended to carry our main luggage on the Blackbird, and things like sunglasses, cameras etc on the Harley. We had arranged the paperwork so that we could swap bikes, which we did frequently.

Last item before departure was a “walk around” of both bikes to document any damage. The Harley was perfect. The Blackbird had a grind on the left muffler and numerous minor scratches, all of which were noted and accepted without complaint by Michael.

A quick look at an LA freeway map showed that getting out of LA should be straightforward, particularly since I could simply follow Warren who had lived in LA some years previously. After agreeing to meet at the first servo in Santa Barbara should we be separated it was time to get underway. Being on the Blackbird I had no fear of losing Warren on the Harley. The excitement I felt as we left the Moturis compound was indescribable. I just felt so glad and free to be on the road on holidays in a completely new (to me) country.

My first experience of LA’s (in) famous freeways proved to be a bit of a yawn. At that time of the morning there was virtually no traffic and it was a simple matter to sit behind Warren as we headed out through Santa Monica, Malibu, and Oxnard on Highway 1. Through Santa Monica and Malibu there were more cyclists and rollerbladers than cars on the road.

First stop was at Santa Barbara, for fuel and an early lunch at a café by the beach. Fuel was the first real challenge of the trip. Most (but of course not all) fuel stations require cash payments to be made before filling up, after which you return to the cashier to get any change. In California (at least) the nozzles have a large spring-loaded collar, which must be depressed before any fuel will flow. This is presumably designed to stop fuel gushing out when overfilling - no doubt another lawyer-mandated attempt at idiot proofing. For most bikes, and particularly the Harley, this rendered filling to anywhere near the top of the tank a tedious business of depressing the spring-collar with one hand, leaving about two inches of nozzle free to be aimed in the general vicinity of the tank with the other hand. Squeeze collar, squeeze trigger, remove, eyeball tank level, and repeat. A pain, particularly on a bike where every drop of fuel is important - I’d hate to own a VTR1000 or TL1000 in California, although apparently plenty of people do. It would also be very easy to scratch the tank on some bikes with these irritating nozzles.

The lady cashier at the gas station had suggested a scenic detour via Highway 154 through some rolling hills inland past Lake Cachuma. The roads so far had been fairly straight so we decided to give it a try. Warren had been complaining about the Harley’s manners at freeway speeds and so I foolishly agreed to swap for my first ride on a big Harley - I had previously only ridden various models of the optimistically titled “Sporties”. What a beast of a thing, with highway pegs and forward controls mounted way out front and the most idiotic (and dangerous) indicator and switchgear I have encountered on any bike (or car, boat or airplane for that matter). Nevertheless, off we went up Highway 154 and quite nice it was too once I could accept that I had no “need to know” what that tiny front tyre was doing. Like the truth, it existed somewhere “out there”, seemingly a long way away. Staying within cooey of the speed limit meant that the wind buffeting could be held at manageable proportions.

Generally speaking, my first ride on the Harley was quite an eye opener for me, being accustomed almost exclusively to sports and sports touring bikes.   In truth, once the shortcomings of the Harley were accepted it was a pleasant enough tool for gliding gently through the mountains and checking the scenery, although I never quite got used to the buffeting at freeway speeds. I suspect that this would have been better without the small windscreen. With perfect road surfaces there was less of a worry of grinding through corners than there would be in New South Wales with our bumps and holes. Nevertheless I was always conscious of the pristine chrome of the case on one side and the exhaust on the other.

Friendly waves from a group of dozen or so GoldWing riders (very common in California) saw us tag along with them to the Cold Springs Tavern in the hills inland from Santa Barbara for a cool drink and a blab. It would have been nice to spend more time chatting with them, but we had some distance to make, so we continued until we were heading North on Highway 101.

There are three main roads North from LA. Route 5, which is the biggest and most boring since it heads straight up the valley inland. Route 101 is the second largest and it occasionally touches the coast but is still basically a multi-lane freeway, similar to our Hume Highway. Highway 1 is the famous “Pacific Coast Highway” and the one we were interested in. The most celebrated parts of Highway 1 don’t really start until North of Morro Bay - and so our first day of traveling was basically intended to get us to Morro Bay in good shape to do the really fun stuff the next day.

Still, a couple of stops were in order, after all we were being tourists as well as riders, so an ice cream on the pier at Pizmo Beach was our last stop before Morro Bay. Like most of the Southern Californian beaches, Pizmo was just huge - at low tide it could be a decent walk to even reach the water, compared to our beaches. There were lots of swimmers, sunbathers, tricyclists and kite flyers enjoying a beautiful afternoon. Compared to the Beautiful People of Santa Barbara, Pizmo seemed like much more of a family weekend getaway type of town.

Eventually we made it to Morro Bay in time to walk around the Embarcadero (docklands) area and then find what must have been the last room in Morro Bay for the night. I was absolutely exhausted from the excitement and length of the day, but nevertheless was still tossing and turning in bed at 0300 thanks to the jet lag.

Day 2

Another gorgeous day - do they have any other in Southern California? We had breakfast at the local Internet café. Despite earlier promises to myself I could not restrain myself from pointlessly checking my email - at least it was free with the industrial-grade coffee.

Day 3

Today we decided to look for roads through the hills inland, heading generally (but not rushing) South towards LA. Departing Route 1 after Nipomo we took Route 166 through the Cuyama Valley. On the coast temperatures had been in the mid to high 20’s C. After heading inland only 30 klicks or so it had risen drastically - 38 degrees (Celsius), as we would later find out. The general appearance of the Valley was of a small desolate dustbowl that had been improved in patches by irrigation. Sparse farms looked out of place in what felt like a furnace, although of course 38 degrees is pretty small beer for desert temperatures. In about 70 miles I think I counted about three corners and one tiny town. I was again on the trusty Blackbird and was able to sit around 200 - 220 kmh at will, easing off only for a very few corners and to wave to some bemused farm workers who looked at me like they had never seen a wheeled vehicle that wasn’t made by John Deere. For sure the bike could have gone heaps faster, but with gawking around and being a long way from help I didn’t feel up to it … of course as any lawyer would say, this is either Patent Fabrication or Exaggeration on my part. At last I spotted a precious, lone tree in the distance and pulled over to sit in the shade and wait for Warren.

Eventually we found the turnoff for which we had been looking. Highway 33 which dives between the San Rafael and Sierra Madre mountains then through Wheeler Gorge to the valley towns of Ojai (pronounced “Oh, Hi!”) and Santa Paula. This proved to be a challenging mountain road of superb corners and views. Deep in Wheeler Gorge there were some lengthy unlit tunnels, one of which was unpaved due to road works. Plunging into them after riding in bright sunlight seemed like riding into a black hole. At one tunnel the road workers would only let traffic through behind a truck with a “follow me” sign on the back.

For most of the ride, however, the corners, surfaces and views were perfect. As previously, my innate urge to fang fell by the wayside after only a few kilometres due to the remarkable views and that indescribably wonderful “roof of the world” feeling. At the summit of the pass (near the 2500 metre Pine Mountain) we stopped for photos and a chat with two elderly locals who were enjoying a trip in the opposite direction, having attended a famous tennis tournament in Ojai on the weekend. They had parked their car on the summit and were listening to some cool jazz at full blast and having a few drinks while they took in the view. Not a bad way to travel I guess, but I think ours was better.

Emerging from the climbing and plunging turns of Wheeler Gorge, through Wheeler Springs into the outskirts of Ojai we came across a pub with a pile of bikes parked in front of the shady porch. Obviously we had stumbled across the local “Mt White” (a popular bike stop North of Sydney, Australia), so a stop for a late lunch (free chicken wings “happy hour”) and a yap was clearly in order. There were Harleys plus a number of Jap sports bikes parked, and we easily dropped into the usual bike blabber with what was clearly a regular crowd, even on a weekday. The sports bike owners were surprised that I had been able to hire a Blackbird, while of course the Harley riders couldn’t believe how far I had ridden on “such an uncomfortable” bike, although to my mind the ‘Bird was almost the perfect bike for what we were doing.

In general in the States we noticed much less of the “us and them” attitude which a few Harley riders in Australia can sometimes appear to have. Waves were returned from riders of all makes of bike. I can only attribute this to the sheer numbers of Harley riders - a Harley is less of a big deal over there because so many riders have one. Over four days during which we were out and about pretty solidly from 9 am until at least 6 pm, I think we would only have seen maybe half a dozen Jap sports bikes outside LA. Harleys and Gold Wings predominated, even on windy roads that were heaven on a sports bike. I think I saw one lone Ducati, a virginal looking 996 cruising ostentatiously down Ocean Rd at Santa Monica, ridden by a guy who looked like he had never ventured beyond city limits.

From Ojai we decided to take the short ride into Santa Paula, just for the hell of it and to check Santa Paula out. This proved to be well worthwhile. Again the road wound up and over the mountains, then down through prosperous looking farms and into Santa Paula via Sulphur Springs. We ended up staying the night in Ojai, however, where we ate some vicious Mexican food and chatted in a pub to locals who were savagely bitching about some local ordnance which was going to mandate trigger locks for guns. What was the point of having your trigger locked, one guy told us, when the bad guys won’t be locking theirs?

Day 4

Today would sadly see the end of the motorcycling aspect of my trip - I could have continued indefinitely, and for sure we had barely scratched the surface of bike touring, even in Southern California. More on this later. Business commitments in Reno, Nevada, however, meant that we had to have the bikes back to Moturis by 4 pm. At least this left us with a decent last day.

I really liked Ojai but was glad to leave our crummy motel. The only thing that I liked about the accommodation was that a few customised Harleys had arrived after us, so I figured that their bikes would be the first to get nicked.

We headed out toward Ventura then via Camarillo to Thousand Oaks. I was keen to ride some of the canyons inland from Malibu and Zuma beaches because I had seen them in video reviews of my bike on the Internet. We took the remarkable Route 23, which plunged through the canyons slightly inland. There were only a few very prosperous looking farms and houses on this tight road across the ridge tops. The final descent to the coast was incredibly steep with, of course, views to match, although sparing the attention to see them was dangerous in spots.

This highlighted a feature we had noticed on lots of the very best roads - Highway 1 through Big Sur, Wheeler Gorge, and now the Malibu canyons - in that the most spectacular places were often the most difficult to stop and take in the view. A few places had strategically located lookouts but many of the most scenic views could only be taken in while on the move. I guess in some sense this adds a degree of value to the experience in the heightening of senses required in order to negotiate the roads and look around at the same time.

After the thrilling decent to the coast we cruised South past Zuma and Malibu beaches looking for Topanga Canyon Boulevard. Another stunning canyon road, only this time we were heading more generally upward. Being close to LA this road has more residences and small shops, so discretion was the order of the day.

The last road we were intending to ride was famous Mulholland Drive through the hills above Hollywood, scene of lots of car chase scenes and so many “parking” scenes that “parking” is now prohibited at night. I can’t say too much about actually finding Mulholland Drive because it involved my first, realistic encounter with the LA freeways in anger, and it was all I could do to stick to Warren’s back tyre.

My previous freeway experience had led me to believe it was all a bit of a doddle, but of course that had been at sparrows on a Saturday morning. Now it was time to experience the freeways in all their glory. Six, sometime seven lanes in each direction, all packed with cars, trucks, buses changing lanes suddenly as they spotted their exits, streaming along at speeds ranging from 80 to 140 kmh. Following Warren from the entrance it was only a few seconds before some huge bug (or maybe it was a small bird!) hit my visor dead splat in the middle after which its entrails dribbled evenly across both sides in a huge yellow smear. Popping the visor I had to stick my gloved thumb in my mouth and feverishly scrub away with my left hand. It was a personally enriching experience screaming down the freeway guiding the Blackbird with one hand, furiously polishing my visor with the other, dodging the locals while catching fleeting glimpses of Warren weaving off into the distance.

Due to careful planning, I had no idea what exit we were seeking, and if I missed Warren turning off I could have ended up in Albuquerque for all I knew. I had visions of the old Bugs Bunny episode where the old driver is trapped on an interchange forever …

But of course, you guessed it, once pilot vision was restored the good old Blackie easily hauled in the Harley, as luck would have it just before our exit. Pulling up at the lights next to Warren I was just about screaming with exhilaration … hmmm - like lots of thing, I guess you had to be there.

Mulholland Drive winds through the hills above Hollywood, allowing great views of the San Fernando Valley (home of Zappa’s infamous “Valley Girl” and hilariously satirized in the movie “Clueless” when a bunch of Beverly Hills rich kids are deciding whether to attend a Valley party), Hollywood Bowl, the “Hollywood” sign and LA in general if you can peer through the smog. The road snakes its way past numerous plush looking houses and is probably the best place from which to get an “aerial” view of LA without actually taking off. Mulholland was one of the very few roads we encountered with a less than perfect surface. Of course it was still better than most roads in New South Wales.

Barring an uneventful return to the Moturis office, this marked the end of the motorcycling aspect of our trip. Looking back I think I can say that the only bad thing about it was that it didn’t go on for long enough. The highlights were many, the bummers few, and anytime you can say that, whether to do with motorcycling or life in general …. Well things have been pretty damn good. Particular standouts for me were winding along the cliffs of Big Sur on Highway 1, negotiating the twists and turns of Wheeler Gorge, screaming across the furnace of Cuyama Valley and the almost surreal descent from the canyons into Malibu.

Looking back, our choice of bikes was, I think, inspired. Or maybe just lucky. The disparate speeds meant that whoever had the Blackbird would always have enough time for some solitude while waiting at that spectacular lookout for the Harley to arrive. While the Harley, to give it its due, provided a nice relaxing cruise when the legs or the neck had cried enough from riding the Blackbird and provided a nice platform for gawking. Certainly I’ll not forget cruising South on Highway 1, lazing back on the big twin, with the cliffs at my left, the surf at my right and a Neil Young’s “Thrasher” in my head.

After our business concluded in Reno, I was able to take a few more days touring, this time, sadly, in a cage. In between the usual touristy stuff I managed to file a few special roads away for next time - The Valley of Fire, North of Vegas, the decent to Hoover Dam South of Vegas, and the awesome “Rim of the World Drive” through the San Bernadino Mountains East of LA. And then there’s the famous Deal’s Gap (a road so amazing it has its own mailing list and newsgroup).

To be sure we only scratched the surface - even just Southern California has a heap more to be explored, let alone the rest of the country. I guess its nice to know there’s plenty more where that came from.