TWNW #11

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Well it looks like my theory about how I'm invisible to radar may have been incorrect.

Officer Hyrdiek...Hrydeik...Hrdyke...

Officer Jerry got me just below the California state line, from an overpass where I didn't even see him. He thought I should have, and was chagrined that I didn't slow down and that it took him a few miles to catch me up. After he'd calmed down and was reassured of my wholesomeness he told me he thought I was trying to rabbit. I wasn't at all, I was just enjoying the mountains and the long sweeping curves and was 100% focused on what the other vehicles were doing.

(Driving 24mph in the left lane, was mostly what they were doing.)

There's still hope for the radar theory, though; he said I was going 90 but he wrote the ticket for 85 because that's how fast I said I thought I was going. This makes me think that he relied on my admission over his radar, which in turn makes me think he might not have got me on radar. I mean it must have been pretty clear that I was exceeding the limit, so maybe he chased me down in anticipation of me saying something dumb like Well I thought I was going 85 sir.

Anyway. That was the endcap to a pretty great morning's ride on Thursday, when I left Grant's Pass and headed south for Zana's place in San Francisco. Zana's a superlawyer and I'd imagine she's a pretty unpleasant person to have mad at you, and it was tempting to drop her name on Officer Jerry but I didn't because he would have soiled himself and fainted and then the whole scene would have become very awkward. So I let him write me the ticket.

Speaking of Grant's Pass and the unsavory nature of Oregon in general, here's a thing that happened on my way out of that town: I got hit on by my dream girl.

I needed to fuel up before I hit the road Thursday morning - and remember that in Oregon you're not allowed to pump your own gas - so I hit the Chevron station and the girl there? The attendant? OMG gorgeous and trashy but not too trashy but almost and sooooo friendly, and maybe even not too far off from my own age and sexy/funny-looking like that woman on CSI about whom you're like, how on earth did she ever even get an audition with that gap in her teeth and that little bit of a tummy there AND why can't I stop thinking about her?

Like that. Anyway sexy Chevron girl lets me pump my own gas but she's still there, hanging out and talking to me, and as I'm topping off she says:

"You've got a really big tank, huh."

All smiley and leaning over the handlebars. &%#@&. Pretty much just throwing it at me. Which never happens which explains my response:

(As you read this next part please imagine me at my very dorkiest, skinny neck and ears for days and horse-toothed grin and my huge head inside a huge helmet, because that's how I looked when I said...)

"WUL FANKS YA ITS PRIDY GUD FER TRAVLIN &STUF! OK BYE HAVA GUD DAY!!"

Jeeeebus. I can't get out of my own way. It's a wonder I manage to feed myself.

So anyway the ride to San Francisco was extremely pleasant until after Redding, CA where the lovely mountain vistas along I-5 turn into a hellish wasteland of sand and manure. The Sacramento Valley's official motto is: "We're California's Lubbock!"

It was freaking great seeing Zana and Mark and their adorable little girls Scooter and Nicorette. They live in a perfect little town near Oakland called Albany, and if I had to live in the godless Bay Area I'd live in Albany for sure, right there in the Ikels's attic.

(I also stayed in the attic at Kiki and Matt's house; maybe I'm officially the creepy old uncle who lives in everybody's attic now. Fair enough.)

Then, on to L.A. on Friday. This trip was another forsaken valley, but it - the San Joaquin Valley - was slightly more scenic and hospitable but still wicked hot. Some bad news on that stretch - halfway through the S.F.-to-L.A. stretch the I-5 had a one-lane reduction in three spots, which meant that in the heat of the day this barren tarmac turned into an extremely long and narrow parking lot. It suuuuuuucked.

Or it briefly sucked, until I actualized what our Buddhist friends call "the Third Way." Then it only sucked for the poor jerks who didn't have the foresight to be on a moto. Want to know what it is? It's kind of a heavy Truth, so if you're not ready to Hear it please stop reading.

What I did was, I sacked up and exercised my right as a traveler on California roads to "lane share" or "lane split" or "drive right the hell between all those stopped cars as they sit there overheating like jerks."

I'm'a tell you what, lane splitting is the best thing ever and I'll vote for anyone who runs to make this a thing in Texas. Hear that, crazy fringe candidates? Make it legal for me to haul ass through a traffic jam and I'll vote for you AND your entire snake-handlin' congregation! Twice!

At first I was a little terrified to do it, because duh it's terrifying. But after a few cars slipped by my rearview mirrors and my engine's temp climbed down from 218 to a more civilized 190 I gained more confidence and went a little faster but not too fast.

(I might have gone too fast)

The key was to keep the engine revved fairly high and to drive with the clutch; this makes the flywheel spin faster which makes the bike more stable at low speeds, and also leaves you ready to jam ahead if someone changes lanes across your path like a goober. Also I used the moto-voodoo trick which guarantees that the bike will go where you're looking; dunno why target fixation is such an immutable law but it's true, I looked right between the cars and that's where I went and if I'd looked at the cars themselves I've got no doubt that I would have hit them.

Nobody threw anything at me or yelled at me, although who knows if they did or not because I was moving faster than the average thrown McDonald's cup and I had my headphones in. Hahahaha enjoy your traffic jam, dorks!

All in all I split for a little over three miles of stopped-to-crawling traffic. I'm not very good at math but that's probably a lot of time I saved. Yey lane splitting!

I got to L.A. at around 7 last night. I love it here, L.A. gets such a bad rap and I don't get that at all. What a fantastic city.

Today Jake took me to this thing in the Dodger Stadium parking lot, where a guy in a car and two guys on dirtbikes were doing really stupid and incredibly awesome stuff with their vehicles. Like stunts, maybe? The bikes jumped all around on this ramp they had, and the car didn't jump but it tore around the parking lot with all four wheels spinning like crazy and came within mere inches of us on the sidelines. He'd spin around for a while, smoke billowing everywhere, then he'd boogie to the other side and come screaming back our way and go into a four-wheel slide and sort of gently flirt with the barricade and shower us with airborne tire detritus before heading off to chase the bikes around for a while.

I have no idea what it was all about but it was really fun and intense.

As you'd expect it was a real banquet of people-watching. Jake kept muttering "The dregs, the dregs..." and I played a game I made up called D-Bag Bingo. A flat-billed cap, a Monster Energy Drink tattoo, and a set of fake boobies were all worth 10 points, and a meth dealer or some Armenians starting a fight were worth 15 points. It was a pretty easy game.

Tonight, Jake's got me feeling inferior about my phone so it looks like we're off to get me an iPhone. Which I hate, and I hate what that'll make me, but you can see that I'm powerless here. Pray for me.

Thanks for reading!

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Photos

Wah wah waaaaaaah.
Sad trombones, man. Sad trombones.

Sup bro.
Sup.

Wheee...
Wait, wut?