Sunday morning got a late start for riding. What the hell is wrong with me these days?
Cruised on over to 92, followed a VFR until I got stuck with a car, passed a few people, then railed down 35 to Alice’s The parking lot was full, like, four bikes deep. Which seemed odd, since I’d seen only one bike on the way in. Must have been posing day, not riding day. Not a single familiar face.
DIGRESSION: I hate getting checked out at alice’s, I don’t need some guy coming over and waving his dick around talking to me about what I should do with my bike. I don’t know or care what kind of horsepower I’m making. I don’t need to be told what tires I “should” be running, and I don’t need you to tell me that some of the guys are putting street wheels on these things now and racing them. Omigod, fucking news flash!
Can I get wheels to match my lipstick? Is all I want to know. And will smaller wheels make my penis look bigger.
I’m not impressed by the fact that you know what a flat-slide carb is, unless you have one in your hand and you are about to install it for me and then wash my bike while I hit on your best friend. Don’t forget to bring me a beer when you’re done.
My next helmet sticker: My MOM could race AFM, you moron.
So, I stopped, added electric vest and hoodie from my tailpack and took off just as my spidey sense started to tell me the guy in the grey leathers was starting to approach and gather his “wits.”
And tried to catch a motard guy who had taken off a few minutes earlier, southbound on 35. Did not catch him, but I did catch a van doing 25 and a guy backing up a Volvo in my lane (facing me, oddly) WTF? Boo. Pulled into four corners, Doc was there, must have been clinic day, but Jack was not there. Boo again. The goat trail at the other end of 35 is calling to me, but I need gas. Down 9, played with a Jag, we both stopped for gas at the bottom, and I headed back up. Left on 35, this is the section I rarely take. Big honkin sweepers for a ways, and then, very suddenly turns into a one lane twisty thing. Really twisty, one lane, lots of blind corners, no shoulder to speak of. I’m doing 15-20, sometimes less, and I feel like I ought to slow down. The view is spectacular. I wish there was a side of road to pull over on. But a few oncoming cars remind me, this is not a place to be inattentive. At the end, I go left because I’ve always gone right there, and want to find out where left goes. Lo and behold, it takes me to Summit, another twisty thing, which, if I remember correctly will take me over to old san jose/santa cruz road, or whatever it’s called. That’s the road I woke up thinking about. It was calling to me. One of my favorites, and I can never remember it’s name.
Except I got distracted by Zayante road, which is another good dirtbike road. Pulled over at a creek down Zayante to sit and listen to the water. Incredible.
Zayante dropped me onto Graham Hill, so I pointed myself into Santa Cruz for coffee, ran into a few people, went to Saturn with Keith, and then rolled down 17 as the sun set. And to think I was tempted to stay in bed all day. Again, what the hell is wrong with me these days?