Wednesday, July 13th
After yesterday's 369 miles at high speeds, I was seriously considering taking it a bit easy today by dividing the remainder of the route in two and attempting only one half today. I exchanged emails with Jeff late in the evening discussing whether to make sausage links of it or go for the gold, and if I chose the former then how best to arrange it. I worked on the route itself as well, and Jeff supplied a valuable short cut. I decided to let the next day's riding conditions, and my body, make the decision for me during the course of the day.
I woke as usual at six. High wind gusts were forecast for the afternoon south of Yosemite. So while I did some cals and stretches, I skipped the customary hour's walk to get an early start and was on the road at 7:45 after an Egg Mc Muffin and container of jo.
At Benton, I took Rt. 120 west and soon met a new type of terrain. A sign warned of “DIPS” but that meant nothing to me. Ahead I could see several “ripples' across the landscape and, although I slowed, I soon found myself launched into space for a few seconds. Each “dip” was a veritable ski jump. Although before encountering each series of dips I could see if there were obstacles ahead and adjust speed accordingly, it was disconcerting to lose all view of the road when dropping into the dip and then find myself defying gravity a moment later. Jeff told me the next day that the kids loved the dips and referred to them as riding a roller coaster – an apt description.
When I reached Yosemite it was 11 AM, far too early to stop. I drove the 31 miles through it, marveling at the scenery. I stopped to take pix but soon learned that the uneven gravel turnoffs were unfriendly to motorcycles. Wheels tended to slide, level spots where I could lower the kickstand were rare and usually soft, capable of quickly swallowing the kickstand and turning my upright FJR into a recliner in short order. Consequently, I was forced to bypass numerous photo ops.
The park ride soon offered another frustration: the single lane road contained numerous drivers who drove slowly to take in the vistas or search for a spot to park. In addition, there were many rented motor homes (CruiseAmerica, etc.) whose drivers drove slowly and cautiously. Places where one could pass were few and far between. The ride to the exit seemed interminable. I found myself yawning and losing concentration, not boding well for a safe navigation of the 150 miles lying ahead.
I finally reached the park “Portal”. Just outside there was a service station and restaurant. I pulled in to use the facilities, but once dismounted was disappointed to see a sign, “No Restrooms Provided”. It was 12:30PM. I called son Jeff to tell him where I was and that I would not stay overnight in Merced, some 40 miles ahead, but instead press on to Santa Cruz. He was happy to learn of my progress but said he believed I had about a four hour trip ahead and that perhaps I should stop at Merced and finish the trip tomorrow. As my finally exiting the park and now speaking with him had given me a psychological boost, I demurred and said I'd be there in time for dinner.
I rode to Merced but the GPS routed me into the center of the city, where several streets were closed for repairs with detours. This completely confused the GPS which insisted on sending me in circles. I was disheartened and very tired. I finally pulled over by construction debris and hollered to a sole pedestrian, asking if there was a park nearby where I might rest. The lady was apparently not intimidated by this “man from mars” figure in a bright yellow helmet and wearing a riding jacket with large shoulder pads. Nodding her head, she gestured to indicate I should come into the shade where we could talk. I pulled a California map that I had purchased before entering Yosemite out of my tank bag and joined her. She gave me directions to a park and, studying the map, showed me a route to Santa Cruz.
I found the park. I spread my jacket out in the shade of a tree and rested/dozed for a half hour. I got back on the bike and attempted to find Rt. 59 south leading to 152 west, but was soon lost again. I finally turned off my planned route on the GPS that had let me into the “maze” of Merced city, and called up its basic map of the area. In moments I saw where I was and found Rt. 59 south. “Hooray for the nuvi”, I exclaimed to no one in particular, and started off with renewed energy and confidence. Rt. 59 led me to Rt. 152 west which I was happy to find was a four-laner with cars zipping along at 65 mph. However, after a few miles traffic slowed and then stopped at a series of traffic lights, apparently timed to reduce speed to an average 25 mph. Then the lights disappeared and traffic accelerated to 65 again. In a few miles this scenario was repeated, and then again. Finally I saw a sign indicating I was entering the City of Los Banos, and soon I found myself in the city's bowels and Rt. 152 had vanished.
I entered a convenience store and asked, “Could somebody please tell me where to find Rt. 152, the road to Santa Cruz.” I was met with blank stares from several customers, but then one man said he could help me once he had paid for his purchases. He joined me shortly, shaking his head and saying that following 152 through the city was virtually impossible. He then gave me directions which proved erroneous (or perhaps the error was in my interpretation). After floundering about some more I finally came to a corner where there was small oval green sign “Rt. 152” on a pole below a city street sign. Like a dog picking up a scent, I continued on.
Eventually the street became a four lane highway. I soon passed a large flashing sign: “High Wind Gust Warning” and it delivered as promised. Unlike the wind gusts I had faced in the vast basins of Nevada which, while quite strong at times, were from one direction, these gusts came from every direction. It was impossible to prepare for them. I was forced to reduce speed from the posted 65, to 50, while cars and trucks maintained the higher speed. I battled these winds for an hour or more until the highway climbed into irregular terrain. I was able to relax a bit and rest as I no longer had to wrestle with the gusts, but shortly saw a sign: “Hecker Pass ahead, reduce speed”. Then another: “Narrow single lane road ahead, drive carefully.” and another: “Headlights required on at all times.” I soon found myself thrust into a true “twister” containing numerous sharp curves and several hair pin turns. The road first climbed for several miles and then dropped precipitously. This was a road I normally would have relished riding on a motorcycle, but not now, when I was so very tired. My riding style must have been ugly for, with reflexes slowed and physical coordination minimal, I rode slowly and cautiously, surely frustrating the homeward-bound commuters in their autos behind me.
Eventually I exited the pass onto Highway One into Santa Cruz, then soon Rt. 17, and finally turned onto Vine Hill Road in the Santa Cruz Mountains, seemingly much narrower and twisty than I recalled. I descended the road cautiously and at last arrived at the gate at Jeff's home. It was close to 7PM, almost twelve hours since I left Tonopah,NV, and two weeks and 3,810 miles since departing St. Marys, GA. I breathed a deep sigh and smiled as I thought of the pilots' expression, “A good landing is one you can walk away from.”
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