I had a dream I was bit by by a snake last night, what does that mean? It was buried in the ground, head first, and then a friend came along and unearthed it. I was leaning against a tree as it crawled up my body. I stood motionless except for my left hand which I put in front of my face. It slithered up as I stood passively and then it bit the hand I held in front of my face. I don’t know what that means, but it sure was frightening since I’m in the land of snakes.

I’m shaking that off this morning. I have come to the neat conclusion that I’m going to be sticking around Oceanside for the holiday (no complaint here). I adore my host and I’m on the neatest bit of land (organic farm and B&B, who could dream of better). I have officially been adopted by my host and her family. I had to tell her that I’ve been adopted by many people, so I suppose another one doesn’t hurt. It is interesting how quickly one can grow close to other humans, it doesn’t take all that long. I came up with a pretty cool way of describing this new found closeness that I am finding many places; I’m being adopted by the world.

This morning I’m going to do some yoga and then I’m off to a pool for a swimming lesson. It is raining today so farm work is minimal here, this means Andrea has the time to give me swimming lessons. She was a swim teacher. She used to teach kids in Alaska how to swim in warm pools because they were finding that Alaskans didn’t know how cause the water was too cold.

That’s now my excuse when someone asks how gal from the land of 10,000 lakes doesn’t know how to swim , “the water was too cold.”

Anyway, I get to swim today, AND it is raining here in SoCal! It is raining! They need it so bad. It is wonderful to experience the excitement that a few inches of rain brings to the residents. How neat to be a part of that instead of the alternative — more drought. If one believed in such things as ‘Christmas miracles’ they might apply the term, I don’t. It is simply the time of year when the days get shorter, the weather gets cooler, and the West coast gets an all encompassing storm that supplies water to the parched areas. It is all science.

Though that dream about a snake biting me…is there a scientific explanation for such foolishness? I don’t know. I woke up to windows filled with grey and a spot on my hand that I had to double check for holes; it was all clear. The sky has been dark on and off since I got here to Oceanside. It makes for a lot of mud. Apparently the hills around here are not glacial, meaning thy were made differently than most of the mountains on the continent of North America (or atleast most of the mountains that Little Wing and I have rode through). The hills here along the rocky shores of Oceanside are cones. They are old cones that made themselves known when all the tectonic plates shifted, and now instead of being cones under the ocean they are large hills with various layers of rock samples all throughout. Andrea told me that from one acre to the next on her farm there isn’t really one soil sample that comes out the same as the next.

She’s a biologist.

I know nothing of what this means. All I know is it is fascinating, and something about all this science appears to be the reason for the exorbitant amount of sloppy, sinking, sticky mud everywhere.

Andrea has a dog, Brooky, who takes all the guests on tours of the property. She has decided it is her job and she has a certain path that she always takes, though she was never trained to do such. At a B&B on a farm this is invaluable skill to pickup. Brooky has so many willing followers and they just love to take the tour. Of course she loves being the leader, the alpha female, and she also loves the attention. She is one of the most popular dogs in the neighborhood because of this hobby. Sometimes the neighbors call Andrea and ask if they can send one of their guests over to have a Brooky Tour, it is fabulous. Well anyway, since I have been here it has been raining, which means it’s been muddy. On the days it wasnt raining I was riding around with Little Wing or off on some adventure with Andrea. It took me until this weekend to finally get my Brooky Tour. Oh, was she ever pleased. It was her, her sister, Foxy, Stiches — the dog from down the street, Andrea, her grandchildren, and myself. Off we started, trekking after that nimble old lab. She lead us up the hill and straight into mud. It was dryer than it has been, but still sticky. It was shocking, hard to believe, like nothing I’ve ever seen. That mud was a new creature all together. It was like Oobleck, something straight from Dr. Seuss’ imagination (he was actually from San Diego, it makes one wonder…?). I felt as though Bartholomew Cubbins was walking ahead with the eight and ten year olds, who were slowly getting covered in the muck up ahead of us. Bartholomew wasn’t actually with us though, that was just my imagination, those kids were doing a number without any help. As a kid I remember loving to play in the mud, but ours was nothing like that. Anyway, Brooky trotted along, lightly, not sinking an inch on those canine pads. We made our way down to the pond. It was low, Andrea pointed out, but a up a few inches from the month before. We saw ducks swimming and two of the three dogs splashed in to chase them. Squeaking ensued — a lighter sound then a squawk, but a noise nonetheless — and the ducks disappeared into the reeds. The children attempted to join the dogs in their aquatic escapades, but were stymied by the inevitable quick riposte of a concerned grandma (too cold for pond swimming here in SoCal). Instead the kids found some interesting things to do walking around the pond; playing, talking being the heros in their own adventure, what ever that happened to be. The squabbling and wacking hands — generally the expected norm of siblings — was paused for a moment while they forgot about all other living beings, except for the dogs and the birds, and went about observing nature. The wonder of a child, there is nothing better.

Of course, during this adventure, I kept looking down to watch the next step. My shoes were slowly getting cased in mud and the extra weight seemed to be deflating any buoyancy I had. I was slowly sinking deeper into the slime. Ah well, this just meant had to pick up my pace and keep moving. So while watching the children I took to doing a dance that resembled something like the cha-cha in its step. From one side to the next, back and forth. It was all about keeping afloat.

When the pond no longer had our attention in its grasp we made our way back up an even muddier incline, Brooky leading the way back to the house. We were more than pleased to reach the top, I was happy to just rest my feet on solid, grassy, sandy soil.

Despite the gooieness of the tour it was pretty damn lovely. It is nice to be staying at such an interesting place and have so many experiences that aren’t typical of my home state. We don’t have hills, but if we did they would be glacial. Actually, Minnesota has the oldest North American mountain range running right through it. It is hard to know that in such a flat swampy area, and they are just tiny hills now. Smalll bumps on the surface because of the many years of erosion. I can’t even estimate how many years they’ve bean wearing down. Biology time differs greatly from my time. I just can’t imagine.

The hills in SoCal are cones. Water here is too cold when it is exposed to 60 degree days (that just a difference in thinking really). There is an ocean a few miles away and a serious drought that is slowly being washed away. It is all so fascinating, all so different. The trip has been peppered with so many of these new places with new things, I adore it. I feel like a an eight or ten year old again, the wonder flashing in my eyes, as I star as the hero of my own adventure. The world is slowly adopting me. Can it get better?

I’m sure it can, cause soon I will be able to swim.

I think the snake dream is a reflection of my nerves. Well, I don’t like that. I don’t like being bit by such a pesky emotion, I am ignoring it. Yoga and blogging are great ways to kill the snake, I have more interesting things to do.

Enjoy your day, do lots of interesting things. Wap the snake on the head, kay?

Some people are so very sweet. Have you noticed?  No matter what they say, no matter who they are talking about, no matter how negative a situation they are discussing, they always have something good to say. They don’t seem to stray from the definition of sweet. I have met people like that on this journey, my host, Andrea, is one of them.

In my life I complain a lot about what I consider close-minded people. I think the worst flaw in the world is to shut off one’s mind to the ideas and thoughts of others. When I identify someone as being close-minded I am prone to judgement. I often time seize upon the word ‘dumb’ and use it lavishly. I find that word and drop it into sentences like an oak tree discarding its leaves in fall. It is an uneducated cop-out. It does nothing to solve the problem and it is unkind. It isn’t sweet at all.
It is something I need to work on; a lot.

I have been the passenger in many vehicles as of late, and in doing so made a new observation. At first I seem to find it enjoyable and charming to be a passenger. It is calming to let my mind relax from the turmoil that occurs to the brain when riding. The constantly shifting eyes, the tense fingers, the feet that are just waiting to hit the brake and gear shifter, it is brain excercises at their finest; the loser is the guy who falls down, the consequences are death and maiming. Being a passenger in a four wheeled cage is a break from that… at first. After a short time the passenger charm wears off and the headache sets in. It doesn’t matter which vehicle, it doesn’t matter who’s driving, my brain starts tensing up, and it isn’t the good tension like from riding, it is the bad one that happens when your sick. I don’t know what it is. The headaches last though. Today I rode with some new friends to the farmers market, and my head has been pounding ever since. Ten minutes into the ride I wished I’d rode Little Wing. My reaction was “this is dumb.”

Riding in California can be scary. Actually, the whole coast is like that. It is busy and it seems that everyone is in an extreme hurry, and because it is so populated it is subject to many traffic jams. The benefit of riding in California versus the rest of the coast is the ability to lane split. It makes a rider feel safer and it also gets us places faster, well, speaking for myself anyway. Now for those of you who don’t know what lane splitting is I will tell you. I actually learned about it in Neligh, NE at the Neil and Willie concert, and then only remembered it when I got here to California.

Lane splitting is the act of a two wheeled vehicle going in between two lanes of traffic headed in the same direction  (i.e. freeway) and filtering to the front. It is done if white dotted lines are present and gets the motorcycle out of the congested, stop and go, traffic which is so often the place of injury for riders. It is an activity that is isn’t truly understood by those who haven’t tried it. I know this because, not only was I not understanding of it before I tried it, I also have been a part of many conversations that show a lack of understanding towards it since. It is something that gets brought up around the table when the conversation turns to motorcycles  (which it inevitably does). Everyone wants to say they know something, and sometimes the only thing they know is that a pesky motorcycle came close to clipping their mirror earlier that day. Other people have an Uncle Frank who had a bike, others have a neighborhood kid with a dirtbike, and some people have a penchant out for motorcyclists without helmets, but regardless,  everyone has something to say when motorcycles become the topic. In California helmets are required, and in California it is neither legal or illegal to lane split, so motorcyclists have the option to do it safely if the opportunity presents.

Now imagine, you are in a car, stopped in a mile long row of ideling cars. You are all making your way forward steadily, but as you move an inch forward you see the brakelights of the car ahead of you light up red. Well, of course, you hit your brakes and continue to wait. The radio starts to play a song, oh crap, you hate this one. Time to plug in the Ipod. Oh,  you are fussing around, hooking up the auxiliary cord, you look up. That car ahead of you has moved ahead another foot. You take your foot off the brake and move forward too, it is a steady movement now. You have moved forward eight feet and then the fellow ahead brakes hard, so you do too, Ipod still in hand, one hand on the wheel. You stop about four inches away from the car ahead of you. You are just about to release a sigh of relief, I mean holy shit, you almost gave them a love tap — don’t want to do that on this freeway full of frustrated commuters– but the sigh is interrupted. It’s thwarted, it never comes, because instead you hear a loud thunk against your bumper. It sounds like someone just dented your car. What the hell? You check all the rearview mirrors, you don’t see it. You open your door a bit and hang your head out. When you look back you see a person with a helmet laying on the ground. You were just hit by a motorcyclist. Why? You hit your brakes too hard. You didn’t even know it was a motorcycle behind you. You drop your Ipod.

Well that sucks. Now imagine something different. Fast forward through the boring inching bit. You are doing that stopping and going thing, the song comes on, you pick up the Ipod, then you hear a loud pipe. You look up to see a motorcyclist slipping between your car and the truck next to you.  “Damn it,” you think, as you fiddle with your Ipod, “those motorcycles shouldn’t be allowed to do that. That’s so dangerous to be riding through traffic like that, don’t they know any better?” Your after work angst grows stronger as you turn your attenion back to the hand held device, one hand resting on the steering wheel, one foot tapping the brake.

That’s ‘dumb.’

So the discussion about close-minded comes back to me, as does the one about being a passenger in a vehicle. This discussion of lane splitting or not lane splitting was brought to my attention today in the car, on the way to the farmers market. “You don’t do that, do you?”I was asked.

“Of course I do.”

A look was exchanged by the two older adults in the front seats. I sat in the backseat and I felt my headache infused ire get up. “I cant support that,” I was told by my new friend in the passenger seat. She is a smart woman whom I respect a lot. Her partner nodded his head in agreement.

My brain was not ready for a debate about motorcycles at that point in time. I had head full of ache, and all I had been thinking about before they addressed me is how much I wished that I had taken Little Wing instead of cooping myself in the cage that I was currently a passenger in. My argument came out dull and sounding uninformed.. or maybe not. Regardless, these people, whom I really respect told me I was wrong. I had statistcs. I had experience. They had opinions. No facts, no first hand knowledge, and from that they derived an opinion. An opinion that made me, and every other motorcyclist who subscribed to lane splitting, an article for there abject and disdain.

So now I have statistics in the form of a PDF for your viewing pleasure. I am of the opinion that people should have facts before they make opinions. It all comes with an open-mind.

To paraphrase the facts, less people are killed while lane splitting (yay!). I enjoy lane splitting because when I pass the driver swerving all over the road I can look in their window and see them texting. I enjoy lane splitting because I feel safer.

I think it easy for people to judge from the comfort and luxury of their seat behind a wheel.

I have to admit, I judge too. I judge all the people with a phone in their hand. I judge all those people who cut me off without looking. I judge people who don’t use turn signals or tap their brakes before deciding to make a sudden turn. You know what I say? ‘Dumb.’

That’s not the correct thing to say.

However, I have driven a caged vehicle before. Four wheels, a roof, a radio, and a heater, I know what that’s like. I know that people can drive a lot safer than they do. I think these new found headaches might come from this new knowledge attained by riding a motorcycle. Some people drive ‘dumb.’ Whether it be the person driving the vehicle I’m in or the other people around, I have no control as a passenger. On Little Wing I am just 400 lbs of machine and flesh at the mercy of tons and tons of larger vehicles, and they have the ability to eat me alive, but the difference is I am in control. I am free, small, and I can skirt around all the drivers who drive ‘dumb.’ Close-minded? Open-minded? Who knows. All I know is I feel safer on Little Wing.

The constantly shifting eyes, the tense fingers, the feet that are just waiting to hit the brake and gear shifter. Brain excercises at there finest, that’s what all driving should feel like. If a driver thinks that they have the time and ability to pick up a phone/Ipod/makeup while their engine is on they are doing it wrong, in my opinion. If some one doesn’t feel like driving is something that takes serious concentration then I don’t want to be on the road with them.

But I really don’t get a choice. If I’m on the road then I have to just understand that people are inconsiderate much of the time.

That’s ‘dumb.’

Nope. ‘Dumb’ is not a solution. A solution is lane splitting. While the drivers sit there, not paying full attention, switching lanes/stopping/fiddeling without care, riders have the ability to observe it and avoid it.

One of the arguments put to me today was “people on motorcycles come up on me and I don’t see them. They are in my blind spot, and then they pass me. What if I had switched lanes?”

My response as a rider? I saw you move before I got there. I watched you long and hard before I  made the decision to pass in the middle. I saw that there was a safe chance, I took it, and now when you do switch lanes I am no where near you. I looked because you didn’t. And maybe you did, and if you did then, it shouldn’t be an issue.

Motorcyclists don’t want to die. Drivers don’t want to be responsible if we do. Simple logical solution: look for bikers. We see you, why don’t you see us?

Put the metaphorical Ipod down.

I have tossed the word ‘dumb’ aside on this subject. I have given my well thought out response, ‘dumb’ is no longer needed.

I would like to make a small plea to anyone reading this, and some sort of underlying message to the universe to all those who are not, don’t tell me you want me to wear bright colors, a helmet, or stop lane splitting for the sake of other drivers. Do not come at me as a non-rider and tell me how you would like me to change so you feel safer. Drivers of four wheeled vehicles have the upper hand. If you want me not to die then you need to stop driving your car in a ‘dumb’ manner. Excuse me, I have better way to say that, stop driving distracted. Stop driving under the influence  (of any and all substances that alter the thought process). Start looking for motorcyclists. I know you won’t see me most of the time, but trust me, I see you. I am looking, seeing, observing, reacting, thinking, and living my own life. Don’t tell me how to ride my motorcycle if you don’t know how. Just open your mind. Let the riders decide. Drive safely and we shouldn’t have as much of a problem.

That’s the sweetest I can muster, I’m still working on it. I have been trying to figure out how to say this without sounding negative. I have been trying to find something good to say on this subject, but the best I can muster thus far is the elimination of the word ‘dumb.’ Like I said, I’m still working on it. It’ll come.

Hey, I’ve got your back. I will try not to kill or maime myself around your vehicle, if you… oh wait. It doesn’t matter what you do, I will still try to survive.

As Yoda said, “there is no try, there is only do.” Lets do it. Lets all open our minds, be sweet and considerate, and drive safer.

Thanks in advance.

Sources:
Ewald and Wasserman. Motorcycle Lane-Share Study Among California Motorcyclists and Drivers 2014 and Comparison to 2012 qnd 2013 Data: Methodological and Analysis Report. The California Office of Traffic Safety, May 2014. Web. 13 Dec. 2014

Other suggested reading for those who are interested:
The Wikipedia Article
American Motorcyclist Association
And this fun opinion piece

Some of you have contacted me about helping financially. As I have been traveling I have picked up a few jobs along the way to keep the trip afloat. I am mainly an independent artist when I’m not on the road (except when I’m working for real money, which has to happen from time to time). Selling art off a motorcycle is a bit more difficult I have come to learn so I figured I would try another source of income til I am back home, safely secured upon a ladder and painting my next mural.

There is this cool website called Patreon to help people, just like me, in this type of situation. The deal is that you are reading my blog. Writing is currently my art, but it is not paying the bills, it isn’t (yet) filling the tank. If you would like to become more a part of the journey I am going to give you the option to do so by contributing a small amount monthly. It isn’t necessary by any means, but it will make the writing much better. When I don’t feel like I’m down to the last couple of dollars in my jingling pockets I feel more relaxed and free and tend to write more.

If you do choose to contribute I am offering extras. For any amount of money a month you can subscribe to the *Extra* email, full of fun weird thoughts that aren’t good enough for the blog. Extra pictures and updates will be sent out. It will give you the odd hectic, totally unprepared feeling that Little Wing and I feel all the time, all in email form. Join the adventure (insert deep, car commercial, voice here).

For even more money you can get a postcard a month plus the email. And for even more you can get a personal doodle plus the email.

Actually, if you are interested at all you can check it out by clicking the button below, and read more about it. Regardless of whether you contribute or not, the blog is still happening, as is the adventure. Little Wing and I are gonna keep on keeping on, but if you do really want to be a more involved this is one of the ways you can do it.

Thank you ♢

After a long walk on the beach and some good bird spotting at the pier I am peacefully sitting on a curb enjoing my white tea and typing away. It has been more than a week since my last admission. It seems I ran into a case of writers block. Oh, excuse me, riders block.

I have this new contraption on my bike that makes for a handy going to town outfit. I have removed the back seat from my bike and put a pelican case in it’s stead.

Pelican, I saw one of those.

The pelican box is a bit different. It is a sturdy watertight box that works to hold my panniers a little higher up than they were, and it makes my pack sit so much better. Besides that it gives me an efficient storage space especially in the event that I’m going to town for a short ride and a long walk. Now I have a convenient place to store my small crocheted bag and my tennis shoes. When I get to the destination I take out the shoes and necessary bagged items and toss my boots into the case. That is about all it will fit, but it allows me the opportunity to explore/hang out/dance without the hot feet or painful blisters that my boots are more than happy to provide. I really like my boots. We are a nice fit, but honestly, they have their problems, and sometimes we don’t get along. I have found that ditching them with the bike is a great idea. After locking up the boots I then strap and lock my helmet and coat to Little Wing, and I’m on my merry way. Cooler, with a lighter load, and able to pass as a regular tourist rather than an overheated wanderer on a motorcycle. It is genius. I should have done it earlier.

Most motorcyclists get locking saddlebags and cases for this very reason. Little Wing is a bit small for such novelties, and I’m a bit broke, but the pelican case was given to me by a very kind friend. It was mounted on the bike by another friend (both smart engineers so the work is impeccable), the result is an inexpensive alternative for small bikes and bikers. Priceless.

I walked down by the ocean. Dipped my toesies and watched the surfers. I want to do that, surf. Unfortunately I cannot swim. This is something of a problem apparently, or so my host has informed me… as has everyone of the Californians I have told. So apparently I need to learn to swim before I learn to surf. Who would have guessed? Ah, well, whatever, if I have to. Swimming might be a more valuable skill in real life than surfing anyway. It might.

If I wasn’t wearing my motorcycle pants I would have attempted to be more of a beach bum, but the idea of getting sand in amongst the fibers of my kevlar enforced jeans sounded rather unpleasant, so instead I just walked and watched the surfers. There was some palpable longing there. Though the water was cold, so surfing might not have been much fun anyway. All the surfers washing ashore were smiling, but smiles are easily faked. I was probably better off just walking.

I walked out on the pier. There were many funny sea birds, it was neat.

There was also a small food stand, but it didn’t seem to have anything very promising. I was considering some fun seafood, which I still might go do. My friend in Portland treated me to first raw oysters. She rides motorcycle and discussed how full of protein and energy they were. The second time was when I met the motorcycle riders in Point Reyes, CA. One of the guys, Don, asked if I liked oysters. I responded that I was new to them, but yeah. We walked around a bit, I had forgot he’d even asked. The girls and I (the wife and girlfriend of the two men) seperated from the guys and went to check out a yarn shop. When we met back up with the guys, right near where all the bikes were parked — two BMW’s, an Italian beauty, and Little Wing– in front of a darling cafe, Don came out with two oysters on a plate and made the same observation that my Portland friend had made, “they are full of energy.” Full of energy is perfect for a biker. I acccepted the oysters graciously — I mean, I didn’t want to offend Don, really — and enjoyed them as much as I enjoyed the first oysters I had tried. Actually, I enjoyed them more. They were fresh as could be and I could taste it. I was hoping for that flavor today near the ocean.

I have also found that kalamari and I get along well, as well as scallops. Most seafood I try while here by the actual sea, is quite enjoyable. I thought I would like it but I didn’t realize how much. It is sort of like the first pomegranate that I picked fresh off a pomegranate tree. And then there was the second, third, fourth, and fifth; amazingly, they all taste pretty damn good. Just like the fresh avocados my host got from her neighbors tree, or the pomelos and tangerines. The fresh cut roses and Californian lettuce, it is like I died and went to So Cal, except I’m still alive, which is even better.

It is about 70° here and I’m Christmas decorating for my host. I don’t really celebrate the holidays, in fact I really dislike them (just to support this full disclosure thing I’ll admit I’m like the Grinch or Scrooge, but without the final rehabilitation), but she does, and I like decorating so I’m doing it anyway. It is a funny thing to have no snow on the ground while cutting out paper snowflakes. I’m wrapping wreaths outside while wearing sunscreen lotion and a tee shirt. I’m picking succulents from the outdoor garden and watching humming birds .. now I’m just bragging. All I’m saying is it sure is hard to get a Christmas movie look while decorating with this bright sun and green grass, but my ‘Christmas spirit’ is easier to maintain. Truly, I’m not complaining.

The other thing is that California is pretty darn secular. There is a large majority of the population that isn’t Christian which is not something one can say about the Midwest. It is a fun change and also means there isn’t an over abundance of holiday music, which is something I’m cherishing. All my life I’ve needed a break from that stuff and it took until I was twenty-one to find it. Life’s struggles.

I see people posting pictures of home, Minnesota, with all its trees. The leafless branches covered in white powder, and the roads cutting a swath through the snow piles — small as they might be this year. I miss it the tiniest bit. Home isn’t like this pardise I’m in, it is home. Then I remember that I get to ride Little Wing in December while sweating, and the missing is diminshed. Missing isn’t the mission anyway. Also, I’m sure next year will be full of flying snowflakes and icky carols, so California is doing me just swell.

Yesterday I had the joy of joining a group of older women in their neighborhood Christmas party. I was told by my host that it was a cultural experience I wouldn’t want to miss, she was right. It was held at the house off a 76 year old. An adobe house with tall ceilings and logs sticking out of the sides where the second story started. It was just like an adobe from the old Westerns except bigger. It was gorgeous. I determined it was my dream house, only bigger. I will make mine much smaller. I don’t really need an adobe mansion. There were about forty of us women there, and the age range was about 40 to 93, I believe. Except for me.. and maybe two women who were probably in their thirties. There was a gift exchange and a lot of chatting. I’m staying with a woman who has an organic farm and a B&B in the hills of Oceanside. The majority of her neighbors are on the wealthy side because of some success or the other. This means that the conversations are very interesting. I had a blast chatting and observing the loveliness of age. The gift exchange was also quite pleasing because I ended up eith a bottle of Chardonay from the local winery. I dislike gift exchanges as a rule, but there is an exception to EVERY rule, especially if it involves wine. My host was gifted a gorgeous orchid, and I got the pleasure of toting it back to her place as she taxied it and I in the truck.

I am finding that the world is exotic and luxurious when one isn’t shoveling snow. A motorcycle trip across country makes for a lot of interesting new things, though I’m not sure that’s surprising. I think it’s what I expected, but I’m certainly not dissapointed that my findings are meeting and exceeding said expectations. Little Wing and I are having a ball.. we must be butter because we are on a roll.

We are just surfing the wave.

Even if just figuratively.

The undulating waves of minerals, it is something I often marvel at. Since the beginning of my exposure to rolling hills and grooved terrain of the mountains I have been awestruck by the fluidity of the form. Mountains look like wrinkled sheets, left unmade. The way the light and shadow strike and partner up in such gargantuan forms is breathtaking. They are like large rocks scattered in a yard, and if that’s the case then I’m like a very small ant, racing along with my gaze cast upwards.

In the desert the rocks are in constant fluid motion. For one they are what they are, and they have an asthetic appeal of movement, but besides that the wind is used as a tool by mother earth to direct the many minerals wherever she pleases. The dessert alters form with the wind. The dessert reshapes itself with the rain. Everything else adapts to the ever changing landscape, and that is the beauty of such a biome.

Little Wing and I found ourselves adapting to the motion of the desert. Death Valley chased us back to West Coast with the threat of rain. I talked to various workers at the oasis that I stayed at and they all had a different take on what would come of the precipitation, or what the forecast even meant for the area. The one that stuck with me though came from the oldest of the people who advised me. Jonathan was his name, and my guess is he was about fifty. He told me that when it rains in the desert the landscape changes. He said that rocks and sand wash out and go wherever they please. He told of people driving in the rain in the desert and having to hide behind their car as the detritus stopped the vehicles and turned them into just another part of the landscape.

I think it was just horror stories.

Even so, being a person who listens to the advice of others, especially when I know nothing of the area,  I took off for less dangerous terrain.

All of California is getting rain today, or so the internet tells me. Since I didn’t know exactly what to do with myself after finding out that the desert actually gets rain too (I am quite flabbergasted, to be honest),  I decided the coast was as a good a place as any. I’m now sitting at my new hosts place in Oceanside, CA, staring out the window at chirping birds on the feeders,  typing and drinking tea. It beats being caught in a mudslide in a place that has the word death right in its title.

The desert was actually quite charming. I found that I had a healthy amount of apprehension about it stemming from my lack of knowledge and experience. There are no swamps or trees there so it was really nothing like anything I’ve known. I was instead going off the knowledge I had attained in books about the Sahara and thirsty cowboys. Movies also came to mind, and visions of Peter O’Toole riding camels served as a type of guide (I was thinking of him before the motorcycle accident, otherwise it is clearly not the best imagery of the great Lawerence of Arabia) while traversing on my own humble steed. I did fell the tiniest bit nervous. So much dry dirt, so many rocks, a lot of heat, it would be one of the worst places I can imagine to break down. Because I haven’t yet spent a lot of time there I find that I still think of it with trepidation. I will have to wander over there again to alleviate, and overcome, this odd hesitation. It is an emotion I am unused to.

Speakingof breaking down, I didnt come up with that idea out of thin air. The first evening that I rode into the outskirts of the valley I was actually met by the reality. It wasn’t my bike that broke down, but a strangers scooter. After an hour and a half of riding through the dark desert I was met by an oasis of light and people, something I had only been dreaming of when riding first on the windy dusty flat roads, and then the winding steep mountainous roads, all in the dark. At one point I became the front of a short procession. It was just Little Wing and a semi, but that was enough to make it feel like a chore. We were going down hill and the only turnoffs were sandy gravel patches which I was unwilling to undertake in the dark, fearing a fishtail off of the hill into the rocky crevices below. I could hear the semi driver putting his foot on the brakes, riding them as I went around the corners at 25 mph. I tried to ignore the thoughts of his brakes going out, and the scene of the eighteen wheeler plummeting down the steep terrain, Little Wing becoming just a hood ornament to be seen later after the dust had settled and the truck was uncovered by the rescue team. I attempted to keep those thoughts as far away as the campsite that was at the end of the ride. The semi must have been thinking the same thing though, because after ten minutes of being lead by the small motorcycle we hit a long enough stretch of straight, flat road and he passed me as I hugged the right side of the road. He immediately picked up speed and I could hear his brakes relax. Needless to say, I was relieved as could be to see the lights of civilization at the end of that trail. Despite the dark blue and black that dominated the sky it was only 6:30, so I was wide awake and pumped on adrenaline. I pulled up to a gas station, and observed that there was also a campsite and bar in this brightly lit bastion of civilization. As I cut the engine and got to uncinching my helmet I observed a man sitting outside of the convenience store at a table. As I watched he got up, and as I hung my helmet he approached. I told him good evening as I got off Little Wing, and then he proceeded to engage me in conversation.

It turns outhe was a Russian, so he spoke with an accent. His name was Misha and he had immigrated to the U.S. seventeen years ago. When he saw me on the motorcycle he thought I might have the tools on me for a broken down scooter. Now mind you, I know nothing about scooters so I have done a little research go figure out how exactly to explain the problem without sounding uninformed, so bear with me. The drive belt had basically disenegrated within its housing. The drive belt is the equivilant to the chain or belt on a motorcycle, except different because it works on a variator. Motorcycles have clutches and gears. Like in a standard transmission car, one holds the clutch and shifts gears. A scooter has a belt in a variator, making the difference between scooters and motorcycles sort of comparable to a standard transmission vs. an automatic in the four wheeled vehicle world. The scooters variator changes the position of the belt depending on the speed, controlling the back tires movement in relation to the engine. The rider doesn’t have to do shifting, it is automatically determined. At least that is the way most modern day scooters work. At least that’s how Misha’s worked.

The belt was a disenegrated pile of dust laying on the side of the road with his scooter and all his gear. He had a new belt to replace it with, problem was, he didn’t have the right tool to to turn the nut holding the variator in place while simultaneously insuring the circular disc did not spin. Meaning, he was turning and turning his wrench and nothing was loosening. He needed an impact wrench.

I don’t carry those on my bike. I agreed to help him find one though. First I wanted to get the tent off the back of my bike. After figuring out the camping situation I setup my tent as we discussed his different options. Me riding two up with him four miles to the place that the sccoter was safely stowed away was discussed. Borrowing tools from campers also came up. The idea of him getting the bike towed was mentioned. The decided upon action was actually a walk over to the bar and adress a question to the bartender. One radio communication later and we were in contact with some of the workers at the campsite area, and thirty minutes later we were in a truck on our way to fetch scooter. Less than eighteen hours later the scooter would be fixed with the help of these men. During the time in between though Misha and I had a whole evening in which to discuss and get to know each other.

It was a neat experience to go to Death Valley in an effort to experience a bit of nature only to meet another friend. One of the coolest things about the experience was the fact that I finally felt I was given a very small opportunity to pay forward all the kindness I’ve been the recipient of. I didn’t actually do much other than offer my company, but whatever it was, it felt good. Small steps.

Misha’s scooter was fixed and he was off to his home the next day. I filled my afternoon with exploration of the valley. I saw the sand dunes and had a great ride in the desert. That evening I would find out about the rain, meaning I only had one good day of hanging in the desert before being scared away by the elements.

Ah well. I’m now in Oceanside, it is raining out there. I’m glad that I can react to such works of nature with gratitude rather than angst. It was healthy to remove myself from a place where I was dreading the elements, because really, that’s what it is all about. The elements make up the bigger picture. California needs needs rain, and who am I to bitch about it when they get it? Well, I’m not now. I’m safe and dry. I’m not in the path of mudslides or dust storms. I have heat and dry place for Little Wing as I watch the birds frolic in the rain, and the plants on the organic farm that my host owns stretch their limbs to take in the glorious moisture. I’m not complaining.

I will go back to Death Valley soon, and hopefully I will be met with as much life and shared adventure as the first night there. We shall see. For now I’m working on not being intimidated by things I lack knowledge of, and researching them if I do.

Hey all, if you are getting sick of that snow and rain in your area feel free to send it over to California. They’d sure appreciate it I’m certain. I’m off to dip my toes in some puddles.

Oh Thanksgiving, I think you deserve a blog. I have thanks to give and you are here, so here I am.

First off, I have had the pleasure of joining some folks in their celebration today. It is a lovely atmosphere in a beautiful home. So far I have been introduced to two sisters and their partners. Star and Ronna, older versions of my sister and I really. Just oh so sweet with voices as sweet as honey. They are older, but I have found that when I’m not looking at them I am certain thay are in their twenties. Sweet beautiful voices that say sisterly things. Voices that talk of their parents with shared love and inside knowledge that just speaks to how close they are. The men are musicians. One is named Lawrence and he sings and plays the guitar.  It reminds me of Lawrence Welk despite the fact that he doesn’t sound like him.  Free association by name and talent only. Last night was spent looking through various versions of the song Little Wing on YouTube and sipping wine. Wooden jigsaw puzzels were also pondered over. California is too dry for a fire, and the lack of chill didn’t necessitate it anyway. Regardless, the air was filled with a crackly, permeable warmth just like the kind given by a fire. My family in South Dakota and Minnesota are all enjoying the same type of warmth right now, I am certain.  Even though I am not enjoying it with them I know they are comfortable in the softness of each others company. Even though I would like to be joining them I am happy to be here, where I am, with a family that I now feel I can take some claim to.

I am grateful for that. I thank the expansive universe for the family I have been, and continue to accumulate here on my adventure. Adopted family all around that take Little Wing and I under their large embrace. A giant hug from the universal star dust.. or something like that.

On my way from San Leandro to Monterey yesterday I stopped at the Mazda runway in Laguna Seca. I was told about it by my kind host, Chuck. It is a world class track where people with fast vehicles go when they want to go fast. I like fast. Fast vehicles are the best vehicles (with the exception of my 1992 Ford Ranger, Smokey.  It is the best truck I’ve ever known, and it doesn’t go fast.) so I figured I had to stop. Yesterday was Porsche day there I found out. I rode into the park where the track is located, smack dab in the middle. When I got near the track I could here nice cars zooming. Loud and obvious,  but not the same kind of loud and obvious as a vehicle with a pumped up exhaust,  or a vehicle that’s lacking an exhaust system all together. No, this was the kind of loud one gets from a beautifully built car with a  great engine. A car that is  meant to GO, and boy did they. I was welcomed in by a sweet middle age lady who was holding a release form vistors had to sign before entering the inner track area. I suspect it is in case one of the vehicles goes really fast in the wrong direction,  or something like that. She told me it was Porsche day, which meant many Porsche clubs from the area were there to practice going fast. I was glad she told me, but she didn’t really have to. Porsche day was easily identifiable once Little Wing and I were through the gate by the Porches everywhere. Lined up in rows, parked in the garages. Filling up at the pumps. One particularly nice one was parked away from the rest with a flat tire on the rear driver side. The ones not parked were zoooom zooooom zoooming around the track. What an amazing thing to see. Besides motorcycles Porsches are my favorite wheeled beast. It was almost like it was arranged just for me, but it wasn’t. I know this because when I asked one of the drivers if he could take a passenger his smiling face immediately became stoic and he responded “No.” Clearly not my event, unfortunately. Ah well, it was amazing anyway. So there it is, I’m grateful for German engineering and motors that get my mind reeling.

I’m grateful for intelligence. Gargantuan words and science fiction movies. Science, logic, Spock, and the Buddha of nerds, Yoda. Great books written by authors who know how to tell a story seamlessly.  Art that grabs your heart and shakes it. Art and music that gives chills. Passion lived out intelligently. I am grateful for such things.

I feel gratitude for the people that I knew before the adventure. The parent I love with such force, the one who raised me. I am grateful for the life that was given to me by two of them. The best friend that was given to me before I was even born, my sister. My extended family,  my family of friends,  the many people who have made me who I am. I think of them fondly today.

You guys, it is the day dedicated to giving thanks! This is like the only holiday I truly get into.

There is a lot happening in our world right now. The conflict occuring in our country, the conflict that has been occurring in others for years. Our world is full of sad events that can’t just be overlooked, and some of them are anyway. I want to observe the negativity, and I want to see it gone,  but that’s not what this post is about, I will save that for another time. This post is about gratitude.  While I am not involved the negativity I am grateful I have the option and freedom to be free of it. I thank the stars that I am where I am and not somewhere else. I am grateful that there are people out there who are willing to take on the negativity for me, allowing me to remain optimistic.  But what I’m most grateful for are those that believe,  like me, that humans are better than all this. I am grateful for good hearted humans that follow love instead of hate and act on it every day. Teachers and nurses. Those who share smiles with strangers, and people who don’t hold grudges.  I am thankful for all those who love themselves for who they are. Humans that realize people are what they are and that we should accept all regardless of differences. I am grateful that I am meeting those people on my journey,  and I am grateful beyond words that the world is not what I thought it was before my adventure. It is great to know the world is filled with good and the media is/was misleading.  Sure, there is bad stuff, but even more so there is good. If you look for it you will see it. I am grateful for perspective.

I went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium yesterday. It wasn’t even busy, I was shocked and so very pleased to find more sea creatures than humans.  There were tiny little creatures immersed in all that liquid. They were thriving in lovely tanks filled with amazing artistic displays of corral and sea rocks. I got to see octopi and jelly fishes.  Sharks, sea otters, and sea birds. The positivity of our world was there, living despite any human negativity that might be happening in this world. I got to spend two full hours gawking and I loved it! I was thankful for that opportunity which I got to share with a new friend, Star.

I’m grateful for good smelling turkey, and fresh lemons given to me by kind folk for me to pass onto the people I’m sharing this day with. I’m grateful for wool sweaters and a new helmet given to me by those who care about my safety. California,  Minnesota and all the states in between.  All the things that are still left to be discovered on Little Wing.

I am thankful for the poetry of gratitude,  and how pretty this blog sounds if read out loud to the sound of classical music.

Love to you all. Enjoy this day, and all the rest of ’em too.

Little Wing got a good cleaning today. This post is for all you motorcycle fanatics who understand the power of a good bike cleansing. Cleanliness is next to godliness. And everyone knows we don’t honor false idles.. or something like that.

Anyway, enough of that, I took some before and after shots. Don’t gawk too much, he’s a pretty piece of equipment, but if he gets any bigger of a head I have to find another teardrop gas tank, and I think this one suits him after it’s shined up a bit.

Before:

Guess what folks? I took care of all that. Me myself, some good engine degreaser, and various scrubby instruments and rags.

After:

So there you have it. That’s how I spent my sunny day in Nor-Cal. Getting greasy and checking all my motorcycle’s nuts and bolts. Not too bad.

Tomorrow I’m off to Monterey.

I went to Haight & Asbury today and seen all the street kids, and Jimi’s (Hendrix ofcourse) house. Jimi’s house has been turned into a smoke shop, but the Haight is still as full of street kids as it ever was.

I gave a dollar to a boy who claimed he needed it for the bus. I gave all the change in the bottom of my hand crocheted bag to a couple of rough looking individuals — a guy and gal– with their dogs. When I handed the change to her she passed it over to him, and that took care of that. After that I was plumb out of spare change. I walked past many signs and many young people like myself who looked like they could use a spare dime. One sign in particular made me chuckle,  it said “I bet you $1 you will read this sign.” I laughed and I pointed at the kid holding the sign, I said “you’re right” and continued on. I turned around realizing the sign had been asking for money and I said “but I don’t have a dollar.”

I walked on. I walked around the block. I checked out the shops. Haight & Ashbury is an interesting place. The buildings are gorgeous, the street art fantastic.  The most run down looking house is 1524 Haight, a smoke shop.. Jimi’s old house. I walked into a few stores. I bought some postcards and a Jimi Hendrix patch. I finished walking, I was ready to rejoin Little Wing, so I turned back the way I came. The corner where the boy sat with the sign that challenged me was on the way back, so I saw it again. I smiled and pointed, and said “I still don’t have one.”

He raised his hand for a high five as he gave me a smile. He was sitting so his hand was at waist level, and I reached down and we made contact. As I crossed the street I heard him say something, I’m not quite sure what it was. I turned around and he was holding a different sign. He had turned his body so he was facing me as I walked away and he held a sign that said SMILE,  and I did. I gave him the biggest smile and I coupled it with a laugh. The joy that boy gave me with that simple sign, it is still filling my gut. The butterflies tickle and the smile wrinkles on my face crease when I think of it.

I walked back to Little Wing. I started  the disassembly of my town walking outfit — taking off my shoes and bag —  and started the reassembly of my riding outfit. As I unwrapped my bag from my shoulder and checked the contents my hand came out with the half ate chocolate bar I had bought earlier. Dark chocolate and orange peel, one of my favorites. Hard to go wrong with citrus and chocolate. As I held it I realized I had no good place to store it without it melting and I concluded that it was no longer in its best interest to stay in my posession. I shod my feet in my boots. I dawned my jacket, helmet, and gloves, and Little Wing and I made our way to the corner where the word SMILE had so boldly been displayed minutes earlier. I approached the boy with the sign, “Do you like dark chocolate?”

“Yes.”

“Here then, this is for you.”

The boy held out his hand as I dropped the half eaten chocolate bar into it, and a smile as big as the one he had caused me spread across his face, “Thank you!” he said thrilled, as he broke off chunks of chocolate. It was clear he was trying to savor it, but he was hungry so it disappeared fast.

“Thank you for the smile” I responded.

There is nothing better than giving back the joy someone gave you. It merely doubles the cheer.

SMILE.

I bet you one dollar you read this