Big trip of 2014 - Prologue and Day 1

In a departure to what had become the norm in recent years, a motorcycle trip didn't seem in the cards this year.  With my riding partner moved away and a girlfriend without an endorsement or a motorcycle, a different sort of trip seemed inevitable.  Therry, my girlfriend, taught summer school this year to help fund her newly purchased home, so we had a specific window to shoot for if we wanted to take a trip together.  I put in my request with work and made sure we'd have the opportunity to go somewhere. 

We didn't know where, but we both knew we needed to get out of town.  I'd grown accustomed to the somewhat laissez-faire style of trip planning that Chuck and I had adopted in our journeys, much to Therry's consternation.  When she pressed me to decide on something, we'd agreed on tentative plans to explore some of British Columbia and Alberta, ultimately making it to Banff.  It sounded good to me, and so we penciled it in the books.

Then, about a month before our scheduled departure, Therry let me know that a complication had arisen.  Her work had asked her to attend some meetings at her university's sister school in Sweden to discuss the nursing program.  I didn't know the details other than I was jealous of a job that would send her to Sweden, and that it was right around the time we'd scheduled our vacation.  I remarked how I wished that I was being "made" to go to Sweden, and Therry said "Well, do you want to go?"  She threw out the idea of staying after her meetings were done and me flying out to meet her.  Off the bat, I couldn't see much wrong with the plan, so I said, "Sure!"

In the subsequent month, we got our plane tickets bought with some difficulty (it turns out there are complications with having access to internet deals when you're buying international tickets.)  In the end, I ended up getting my ticket for around $1200, which was more than I'd planned on paying, but wasn't too far off the mark from the best of what I was finding online.  With Therry's motivation/prodding, we at least managed to secure a place to stay the first few days in Stockholm, via AirBnB.  We knew we wanted to see Sweden, and made plans to stay with Therry's friend in Copenhagen, but beyond that, our plans were nebulous.

The last couple weeks in August were busy for me, having a motorcycle rally to attend and my dad coming out to visit (both of which I'll try to write about later), my mind wasn't really focused on the trip.  It would be the first time I'd been overseas in 18 years, and part of me was excited by that, but it didn't really seem like a reality until the day before my flight.


Day 1 Sep. 1st. - 2nd 

As mentioned, prior to leaving, my dad had come out to visit.  As it happened with planning, we'd both be flying out of the airport around the same time.  It was a good visit, and fortunately with it being Labor Day, my roommate Erica had the day off.  She volunteered to take us to the airport. and we gladly accepted.

Everything went smoothly at the airport, and my dad and I hung out for as long as we could before going our separate ways.  We hugged, said goodbye and wished each other safe travels.

My first leg to JFK was largely unremarkable, which is exactly how I like my flights.  Therry had done a lot of the legwork in getting my ticket secured, and she'd managed to get me exit row seats on both flights.  It was sort of a score--I had the window seat which usually is desirable, but the rules change a bit when you're in an exit row. It means that you have to contend with the life raft embedded in the door, which takes encroaches on your lateral space.  Basically, you can stretch out, but you'll have to do so at an angle. It was still definitely better than a standard seat though.

Fearing I'd have a major walk ahead of me once I got to JFK, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I actually was flying out of the exact same gate at which I'd arrived.  Heeding Therry's request/advice (she'd seen the alcohol prices in Sweden), I made sure to swing by the duty free shop while laid over, and eagerly awaited my transatlantic leg.

On the flight to Stockholm, not only was I in an exit row, I was in THE exit row.  I was in the first seat in the main boarding area, so I was the first person anyone saw when getting on the plane.  Hi, I'm Tim, I'll be your American on this flight.  It was more than apparent that I was a foreigner on this plane--there was lots of talking going on, and the only English I heard was an American flight attendant ineptly trying to make small talk with boarding Swedes.

It was going to be a long flight and I was ready to get underway.  But as air travel seems to go for me, fate had other plans.  We sat for a long time.  Since I was next to the door, the annoying American attendant kept asking me if I'd seen the jetway move.  I repeatedly told her no.  It turned out that a passenger was a no-show, but his luggage had made it to the plane.  Regulations dictated that they remove the luggage, but since it was already loaded, that had to sift through all the bags to find it.  Of course, it was one of the first loaded, so last found.  About an hour late, the jetway pulled away and we eventually taxied out and were able to fly.

After a long flight, and attempted slumber, we landed in Stockholm.  I was officially on foreign soil, and not exactly sure what to do with myself.  Therry had given me detailed instructions, which helped immensely, and I mostly just followed the crowd and pretended like I knew what I was doing. I must have done it convincingly because several other travelers asked me about what they should be doing.  Even though I had paid Verizon an extortion fee to use my phone in Europe, it didn't fully work when I landed, so I sent a $.50 text to Therry telling her that I was on the ground, and I'd only text again if I had trouble.

Thanks to Therry's instructions, I was able to figure out the queue system at the information desk, and procure a Stockholm 72 hour travel pass.  I found my way to the bus, and then caught a commuter train to the central station, where I'd rendezvous with Therry.  I did all right, I only almost got hit by one bus, and didn't know how to operate one elevator.  I found Therry without much issue--Filipinos weren't so prevalent there.  It was good to see her after over a week, and also good to see a familiar face in a foreign land.

I was exhausted, but it was still early in the day.  I was up for seeing some of the city, but wanted to put my feet up for a bit first.  We boarded another train and made our way to our AirBnB apartment, Johannes' place.  It was about a 15 minute train ride, and a 5 minute walk to get to Johannes', but it seemed like a nice enough place. (Finally, pictures!)

Just a basic studio apartment

Having a kitchen was one of our few requirements

View from the balcony

 After a bit of relaxation, a bite to eat, and a celebratory swig of duty free, we made our way back to the heart of Stockholm to visit Gamla Stan, which literally means "Old Town."   As the name implies, it's the old part of Stockholm, dating back to the 1200s.

A picture of the train we rode in on, or one like it

This was an emblem indicating that the house had paid the fire tax. If you wanted firemen to put out your house fire, you would have wanted one of these on your doorway.

A runestone as part of a building's foundation. Along with similarly illegible modern graffiti.

A view of Riddarholm Church 

In front of the Royal Palace

Iron Boy the smallest statue in Stockholm.

Rubbing his head for luck, with what I deigned an appropriately touristy smile. Are you feelin' lucky, punk? Well, are you?

Stortoget, or The Big Square, basically Times Square of medieval Stockholm

What a lovely place for a bloodbath.

By this point, we were pretty hungry.  Well, Therry was pretty hungry. I thought that I might be hungry, but not exactly sure what hour my body was on, my stomach didn't know what it wanted.  We looked at some places nearby in Stortorget and in other parts of Gamla Stan, but decided to look elsewhere that wasn't in the heart of tourist town.

Along the way though, Therry did take me to a science fiction book shop which appealed hugely to the nerd in me (e.g. me in general).  Not only did they have the implied great selection of sci fi books, but also a great selection of graphic novels, manga, DVDs, and tabletop gaming supplies.  I was somewhat interested in picking up a book with a snazzy cover that we don't normally get in the states, but didn't see anything that caught my eye, or that I wanted to lug around for another two weeks.  Still a great shop though, I wish we had something similar in Seattle.

We got on the train and went a couple stops to Sodermalm, where there were a bunch of restaurants.  We decided to check out this place called Snaps, it seemed popular and trendy, so we gave it a go.  I wanted something authentically Swedish, so I ordered köttbullar, aka Swedish meatballs, with lingonberries. Therry got some sort of shrimp pasta dish, and we had a couple glasses of wine along with the meal.

The bags under my eyes and far off stare indicate that the flight has caught up with me.

The meal was nice.  It wasn't extraordinary, it certainly wasn't bad, it was...nice.  The bill came to something like $70, which was to be my first shock of the expense of Scandinavia.  Therry treated me to dinner, and didn't seem affected by the cost as much as I, but I was pretty taken aback.  I figure something like that would cost $40 at an overpriced "trendy" Seattle restaurant.  At least tipping wasn't expected here.

After dinner was a blur, we went back to the apartment, and I think I was barely able to get my shoes off before I fell asleep.

Spring cleaning, and the next chapter

The last known picture of the SV

The day has finally come to pass.  The SV, my faithful steed and rite of passage, has now moved on to a new owner.

At the end of last riding season, I had grand plans of revitalizing the old girl, putting on a fresh paint job, maybe a new exhaust, new suspension--who knew, it was as much as my imagination would allow.  Although, there was also the factor of budget, which was of course a significant hurdle.  Not to mention other intangibles, namely skill and motivation.  Suffice to say, my I found other ways to keep myself occupied during the winter, and not much was done to the SV.  And since my living situation has me in close proximity to my neighbors, and the SV wasn't exactly the most discreet sounding bike (especially at 6:30 AM), I just wasn't riding it, at all.  So, with a heavy heart, I came to the conclusion it was best to sell it.

Even the preparation to sell it was more of an endeavor than I meant it to be.  I had some basic maintenance to do, as well as a thorough cleaning and removal of accessories.  Somehow I kept finding other things to do that sounded more entertaining.  But little by little, I got more done.  By the way, one of the most time consuming and aggravating steps was trying to clean off the gunk that had cemented itself to the underside of the engine from the construction on the Going-to-the-Sun Road in Glacier.  I had to apply copious amounts of vaporous solvents and elbow grease to get that stuff off.   I was one step short of reaching for a hammer and chisel.

Anyway, after a couple months of procrastination and re-prioritization, I had the bike up in what I hoped would be a sellable condition.  With a bit of trepidation, I placed an ad on Craigslist and hoped for the best.  The initial results weren't promising.  With the recent trend of great weather, and what I thought was a competive price, I'd hoped for a slew of emails.  Instead, I had a lukewarm response at best.

A guy contacted me asking if I'd be interested in trading for a living room set, and possibly a Sig Sauer once he regained posession.  I had a couple of responses which didn't even consist of complete words, let alone sentences.  And I had one guy just asking to let him know when it sold, so he could know how much he could sell his for. Needless to say, it was hardly the encouraging situation I was hoping for.

But, I refreshed my ad later in the week, and had a more positive response.  One guy contacted me with actual complete words, sentences, AND punctuation, so I made sure to not let that opportunity pass me by.  He informed me he'd owned a couple of SVs in the past, and liked the looks of mine and we corresponded a couple days sorting out some of the finer details until he could come by and see it in person.

When the day came, it turned out that he was in fact helping his friend pick out a good first bike, and they appeared to be a more affluent version of Chuck and me.  They were both contracted engineers at Boeing, the guy was riding a KTM SuperDuke, and the friend was driving a pretty slick looking BMW.  The guy was also significantly more experienced and knowledgeable than us, upon shaking hands, he got right down to business and gave the SV a thorough looking over.  It was the equivalent to a physical, complete with the prostate exam.

He quickly spotted flaws in the bike, which I'd been hoping wouldn't be noticed, or I'd just grown so accustomed to that I hadn't thought about in a long time.  But all in all, he seemed OK with what he saw. While he took it out on a test ride, I sat and chatted with his friend, who sounded much like me a few years ago.  He'd always wanted a bike, he had a friend that knew a bunch about motorcycles, and with all the great weather we've been having and seeing other bikers out, his desires were getting that much stronger.

When the guy came back from the test ride, he was straightforward with what his thoughts were.  All in all, the bike seemed sound, but the exhaust needed some work (leaks at the joints) and the clutch felt like it probably needed to be replaced soon.  So after a quick bout of negotiation, we agreed on a price $300 under what I was asking, and called it a deal.  Soon after, I was given cash, the title was signed over, and I watched my old friend ridden off to a new stage in life.

It was a weight off my shoulders, to have the SV sold, since it was more or less collecting dust for the past year.  But naturally, I'm experiencing a period of bereavement, thinking of the good times we had together.  The first night of me taking it out for a ride with Chuck, and the agonizing incident of repeated stalls as I tried to make it through an intersection, with Chuck blocking traffic for me.

Or the first extended trip that Chuck and I did, circumnavigating the Olympic Peninsula.  It had been a largely boring ride, mostly just a straightish 2 lane highway with periods of trees and deforestation. But then upon reaching the northern section of the route, the road got twisty and interesting, and I got my first real taste of the exhilaration of hammering the throttle through turns.  I'm sure my technique was cringeworthy, but those few miles of road remain some of my fondest memories in motorcycling.

Naturally, other moments stand out when I think of the SV: my first real road trip, touring solo through Oregon; an impromptu weekend getaway to Horning's Hideout with Chuck; and of course, our big trip out to Glacier.  Even though it wasn't a top of the line bike, was a little long in the tooth, maybe not the most stylish, it was a great machine.  It taught me how to ride, took me where I wanted, was ultra reliable, even when neglected, and I never got bored on it.  I took it out for a quick test ride before the guys came to look at it, and still, it gave me tingles with with its exhaust note, quick acceleration and nimbleness that the Tiger, for all it's superiority, can't replicate.

So it's no surprise that seeing the SV go is a bittersweet transition for me.  Of the ways to go though, this surely is the best.  I'm much happier to see her going on to a new home to a new rider, rather than ending up as a collection of bent metal at the scrap yard.  I just hope that he treats it well, and is able to derive at least a fraction of the enjoyment I got during my ownership.  Now I'm just left with a void in the garage.  And I ponder if it will be filled, and if so, what that might be.

The severed apron string of the battery tender

Day 13 - Truckee to Wolf Creek

It rained off and on throughout the night, but I was nice and dry inside my tent, aside from the beer I knocked over.  Unlike most campsites, where you put your money in an envelope and drop it in a box, this one instructed me to pay the host when they came around.  Nobody had come by the tent during the evening, and I sure didn't feel like making a fuss about the oversight, so I got up early.  I wasn't rushing to get out of there, but I wasn't lackadaisical either. I had my coffee and tried to catch rays of sunshine where I could.

Trying to dry out in the morning (I didn't get a chance to take a picture the night before.)

I got everything packed up, and literally as I was just about to cinch down one of my bags, I see a suspiciously brown pickup truck driving slowly through the campground.  Balls.  He stopped by a couple sites along the way, and then stopped by mine.  He was an older white guy (surprise, surprise) and he walked over and said hi.  He asked me about my bike and where I was headed.  Then he asked me how I liked the stay.  I didn't know what to say, so I just tried to be polite.

"Oh, it was all right, you know, I just hung out in my tent and caught up on..."

"Bahhh, it sucked." he said succintly. "How about I don't charge you for last night, and you just do me a favor and stay here if you ever come through way again."  Sounded like a deal.  I told him as much and thanked him.  I wish I could recall the name of the campground, but I can't even definitively find it on Google Maps. It's somewhere between Tahoe and Truckee, is all I know.

Maybe it's sacrilegious to say so, but as I get towards the end of a roadtrip, I start to really pine for home.  I see where others will stretch their trips out to the absolute limits, but I personally get enamored with the thought of my bed and shower at my disposal.  Particularly with a return to work looming in the near future.

I was a bit dismayed at the amount of progress I'd made the day before, with all the relentless twisties.  I opted for Route 89, which turned out to be a great choice.  It wasn't a major interstate, but it was fast moving and had plenty of turns and scenery.  It was cool out, and I felt like I was just in front of rain for most of the time.  I hit a few sprinkles along the way, but nothing to fret over.

High plains drifter...

I was getting great gas mileage at elevation, 51 and change compared to my normal average of about 45 mpg.  Doesn't sound like that much of a difference, but it was definitely noticeable over the range of a tank.

An unplanned bonus of the route was that it led through Lassen Volcanic National Park.  I only knew the park by name, but was certainly game to ride through it.  I didn't realize it would cost me money to take the road through Lassen, but the $5 motorcycle fee was well worth it.  I realized that each of my motorcycle trips in the past had involved national parks, Crater Lake my first trip, and Glacier my second.  The national parks are one thing that our country has done right.  Sure, people will complain that they could be run better, but the fact that they exist in the first place is something to celebrate.  I made a snap decision to involve a national park in each future trip if I could help it.  And also to check out the Ken Burns series when I got a chance.

Lassen was reminiscent of Crater Lake for me, but it seemed like it was older, geologically speaking.  The scenery was beautiful and the park, while not empty, wasn't crowded, nothing like Crater Lake and Glacier. The road had been freshly chip sealed, and there were lots of oily patches.  I tried to snap pictures as I could along the way while still keeping an eye on the road.

I liked these knobby spires left by erosion.

Tried to capture how epic this road would be if traffic and speed limits weren't factors

Lassen Peak

Chaos Crags?

As is the case with all National Parks, I really wish I'd spent more time to hike around and explore, but the ride through was nice nonetheless.  I was pretty hungry by the time I left though, so decided to stop in Burney for lunch.  It was a little bit out of the way, but it looked like it'd be the only opportunity for food for a while.

The road got far less interesting outside of Lassen. And rain hung in the air ominously.

Burney was depressingly depressed.  There weren't many choices for restaurants in the town, a McDonald's being the sole fast food joint, and one of the only businesses that looked prosperous.  I briefly considered stopping there, but decided instead to check out a pizza place.  But, as luck would have it, the pizza place was out of business, so I decided on the neighboring greasy spoon diner.  All of the staff and patrons looked like they had been runner ups for the Jerry Springer Show, but the burger wasn't bad, I'll give them that.

I backtracked to 89, and followed it into Mt. Shasta, and past the eponymous mountain.  Mt. Shasta did indeed look like Mt. Rainier's sibling.  Before I knew it I was connecting with I-5.  This was officially the farthest south I'd been on I-5.  I've heard horror stories, or more accurately, boredom stories of the southern parts of I-5, where the only positive thing people have to say about it is that you can drive fast.  Fortunately, this area and north still proved to be interesting, even for interstate travel.

I somehow managed to miss taking a picture of Mt. Shasta, but got a picture of nearby Black Butte.

I stopped in Weed to get gas, and mainly say that I'd been to Weed.  I wanted to take advantage of California's cheap, free market liquor while I had the chance.  Washington recently shut the doors on the state liquor stores and allowed hard alcohol to be sold in grocery stores, but at an exorbitant tax rate.  Liquor in California can be literally half the price of what you'd find in Washington, so I wanted to pick up a bottle or two of good whiskey while I had the chance.  It turned out I'd taken the wrong exit, and found gas stations and little else.  I considered stopping in Yreka down the road, but saw billboards for Liquor Expo, which proclaimed itself to be "Worth the Stop."  Well, can't argue with that slogan.

I found Liquor Expo easily enough.  In the parking lot I saw an attractive young lady wearing a dress that left little to the imagination, and I was reminded of how lonely and caveman one can get on a motorcycle trip.  The place was indeed worth the stop.  It was like Beverages and More, but without the corporate overtone.  I picked up a bottle of Bulleit Rye for $19--it's apparently considered "cheap" whiskey in these parts, but it's upper-middle shelf in Washington (at least by my standards).  I also picked up a bottle of Eagle Rare, I'd never heard of it, but one of the employees recommended it to me, and it was competitive with Knob Creek.

From there, I pretty much just ticked away miles as I headed into Oregon.  I stopped in Grants Pass to get bearings and realized that I'd already overshot one campground I had considered.  Looking at the map, I wasn't sure what the next opportunity would be, but I saw a couple places that were contenders, and figured that if all else failed, I'd get a motel in Eugene.

The hills of southern Orygun

I saw that there was a park in Wolf Creek on the map, so I decided to give it a look see.  When I pulled off the highway, I saw signs for the historic Wolf Creek Inn, but followed the less prominent signs to Wolf Creek Park.  I pulled into the park and looked at the kiosk, and yes, they had camping.  Score.  Not only that, but they also had a 9 hole disc golf course.  Double score.

The campground turned out to be pretty cool, it was obviously built in the '70s and though had been well maintained, had not been renovated.  Everything had a distinctly retro feel and I dug it.  I would have felt at home in short shorts and tall socks.

I rode around the campground more than I meant to.  I was incredibly indecisive about which site to pick, and in scouting out spaces, I found myself on a dead end path and did some inadvertent dual sporting through the woods to get back on track.  I finally settled on a relatively private site by the creek.  The creek was mostly dry, but there was a bit of water in pools, and I figured it'd do a little something to cool off my beers.  I wasn't sure about the water, so I made sure to prop them up with the necks out of the water.

While I was dropping off the envelope, the camp host came out to chat with me.  He was friendly, and seemed glad to have someone stopping by.  He told me that I'd just missed a big biker rally the weekend before.  They'd set up a stage and everything, and had wet t-shirt and booty shaking contests.  And of course lots of beer.  I wasn't sure if I was glad that I'd missed it or not.

The host told me to enjoy my stay and just asked that I keep an eye on my fire if I decided to have one.  I scrounged some deadfall and chopped up the wood as it got dark out.  My desire for a secluded spot turned out not to matter, as I was the only one in the campground.  I worked on finishing my beer (trying hard not to think about the composition of the creek after a biker rally), and had a pleasant, but somber evening by the fire.  This would be my last night camping.  I was ready to head back to the comforts of home, but I also didn't relish the trip coming to an end.

Day 12 - San Jose to Truckee

I woke up early the next morning, eager to put some miles under me.  I didn't really have any destination in mind, just to head generally northward and closer to home.  I'd briefly debated skipping the rest of Observatory Rd., the oil slick incident the day before had shaken me a bit, and through all the switchbacks ahead, I didn't really want to have that experience again.  But having slept under the specter of the white dome all night, I knew I couldn't very well turn away from it now.

I got packed up and went to use the bathroom and brush my teeth, and encountered a hairy, bandy legged tarantula hanging out in the middle of the bathroom floor.  It didn't make any movements, but I didn't try to provoke it either.  I generally like spiders, but I'd never seen an actual tarantula out in the wild before, and I wasn't eager to see it scurry around the bathroom.  I let it be and it replied in kind.  Whew.

That excitement averted, I finished packing up and headed back out on the road towards the observatory.  The road turned out to be not as treacherous as I feared, none of the hairpins were as tight as the one the day before, and all were oil free.  The road was twisty as hell though, I imagine someone on an unladen sportbike with knowledge of the road could have a lot of fun on it.  As it was, being unfamiliar with the road and on my heavy adventure bike, I took it easy for the most part.  It seemed sensible with steep dropoffs along the way, and some hard to see gravel scattered here and there.

I made it to the top of the mountain, to Lick Observatory and was surprised to discover that it wasn't just one telescope, but rather a collection of them--maybe half a dozen or so.  I was slightly dismayed that all of the telescopes were gated off and not accessible to the public, at least not from what I could tell.  Still I managed to get one in frame for a conquest pic.

I think this is looking back towards Silicon Valley

And the other side of the mountain

I tried to capture a cool section of road here, but it didn't really turn out. Trust me, it was a sweet stretch of asphalt.

I made my way down the other side of the mountains through roads just as twisty as the way up.  Surrounded by gorgeous scenery, and hardly any evidence of civilization besides the road and some ranches, it was quite the pastoral ride.  Eventually I came to an intersection that either led east to I-5, or north to Livermore.  I wasn't eager to go on the highway, and I'd at least heard of Livermore, so struck out north eager to find something to eat.

Shortly after making my decision, I passed a sign saying that the road was twisty for 31 miles.  Great.  Normally, that's precisely what a motorcyclist wants to see, but it had taken me an hour, hour and a half to make it to that point so far, and I guess it had been about 25 miles.  Remember that I was running on the one bagel from yesterday morning, so more slow going wasn't exactly my desired route.  As it turned out though, the road was quite pleasant, twisty, but mostly flat, following the contours of a stream.  The road itself was interesting, essentially becoming a one lane highway, but in lieu of a painted center line, it had a ridge down the middle, which made picking your lines that much more technical.  Eventually the road ended at a T intersection, and I believe I had encountered all of 6 cars since I departed the campground--1 of which was sitting in a driveway.

The intersection didn't have much for signage, and I couldn't get a good feeling for which way civilization lay, so I gambled and turned right.  And quickly I was reminded why I'm not a gambler.  After seeing decreasing evidence of civilization, I stopped to consult Google maps, and saw that I had indeed turned the wrong way.  But, if I continued on the road, I would intersect with Tracy, another town I'd heard of.

So, I forged onward, soon seeing a sign indicating twisty roads for another 12 miles.  Great.  Soon enough though, I came into Tracy.  I had obviously come in the back way, as there was definitely civilization, but this was the agricultural and industrial part of town.  I rode around, trying to find a place to eat.  For once, I wasn't in the mood for Mexican food.  I had a hell of a time finding any restaurants--houses and fields, there were plenty of those, and an occasional supermarket and gas station, but no real restaurants.  Then when I did start spotting them, they were all Mexican.  Every. Single. One.

After more searching, I found Tracy's miracle mile, still mostly Mexican food, but a little more variety.  Tracy was HOT, probably pushing triple digits, and I was hungry.  The heat, the hunger, the incessant stoplights, and general environment of Tracy was making me irritable.  There was a place called Freebirds, a burrito place.  Even though I'd been trying to avoid Mexican, I'd had enough of riding around, and decided it was good enough.  Besides, there was a landmark burrito place in Santa Barbara called Freebirds, and I was curious to see if this was a new branch of it.

It was not, upon closer inspection I noticed that it was actually called "Freeb!rds".  Nice tiptoe around copyright infringement.  The place wasn't bad though, it was essentially like a Chipotle or Qdoba, but with a more "America, Fuck Yeah!" vibe to it.  The girl helping me (wearing red and white striped pants) seemed to like me, and walked me through the ordering process.  She asked what kind of bike I had, and I told her it was a Triumph Tiger, an adventure touring bike.  To which she replied "Oh, my friend has basically the exact same thing, but it's a Harley."  Riiiiiiiiiight. The burrito wasn't anything noteworthy, but it hit the spot, even if it was overpriced.  I'm slightly chagrined to admit that I found their BBQ sauce to be quite delicious though.

While having my burrito, I decided that Tahoe seemed like a worthy destination for the day.  I considered getting there through Auburn, Chuck's old hometown, but the only real way to get there was via Hwy. 80, which was a little to major for my tastes.  Hwy. 88 though, looked promising, and there were some smaller roads I could use to connect to it.

Seemed like a plan, and though I'd gulped down plenty of water at Freeb!rds, I felt like all of it sweated out of me as soon as I stepped back outside.  Even with a full stomach, the heat, the slow traffic, and the seemingly endless chain of red lights were making me irritable.  Soon enough though, I was out of Tracy (probably to never return), and on myway.  The secondary roads to lead to 88 started off as being aggravating as well.  Better than the stop and go of Tracy, but it was just as hot, and I inevitably found myself stuck behind slow moving agricultural equipment.

Eventually, I made it past the orchards and vineyards, and was able to up the pace.  Once again, I found myself riding through lots of twisties.  I kept my eye out for any signs for 88, but didn't see any, and just kept forging onward, twisties be damned.

Finally, I came to a crossroads that indicated 88 was nearby.  Feeling hot, tired, sore, and dehydrated, I stopped at a convenience store to guzzle some Gatorade and get my bearings.  Looking at the map, I'd missed a couple opportunities to connect with 88 and had taken "the scenic route."  Oh well, 88 wasn't far away at this point, and it would be pretty straightforward to reach Tahoe from there.

I had to endure more twisties until I spit out on 88.  88 turned out to be plenty curvy, but they were more high speed sweepers.  I could finally open the throttle up and keep it there.  Twisties be damned, curvies were what I needed at this point in my trip.  It helped that most of the traffic I encountered was polite and pulled to the side to let me by.

By the time I reached the turnoff for Tahoe, I was getting pretty sore and tired.  I told myself I could make it to Tahoe though, and would stop when I saw a grocery store.  Most of the stores I passed though were little rinky dink general stores or gas stations.  I finally made it to the more populated area, and found a Raley's--basically a big nice grocery store like a QFC or Kroger.  I picked up a big sandwich from the deli, a couple apples, some beer, and a few souvenirs.

Looking at the map, it seemed like there would be plenty of camping opportunities along the way, so I gassed up and just planned on pushing along until I didn't feel like going any farther.  The main road more or less followed the curves of the lake, and it was slow moving with all the activity in the area.

Emerald Bay

Fannette Island, the only island in Lake Tahoe

When I stopped to take the pictures above, there was an older guy with an old Kawasaki Voyager in the parking lot.  He looked to be having some issues with his bike, so I stopped to see if I could help.  He asked if I knew anything about carbs--I told him I knew a little bit about them, but not much.  He explained that he thought he'd missed an o-ring or something when rebuilding his carbs, and showed me an exploded diagram on his phone.  It was apparent that he knew way more about carbs than I, and I could only nod in agreement.  His bike was steadily dripping gas, but he said it still ran OK, he was more worried about it catching fire.  I wish that I could have been of more assistance to him, but really, there wasn't much I could do other than lend moral support.  We were headed in opposite directions, and he was ready to pull into camp and figure out what to do next.  He thanked me for stopping by, nonetheless, and we wished each other good journeys and I headed out.

The sun was getting lower in the sky, and I was getting tired, so I started looking for campsites in earnest.  Most of the campgrounds were right by the main road, and looked to be pretty crowded, with families, no less.  I saw a sign for a campground that looked off the beaten path, so I turned off looking for it.  I followed an empty road that wound its way up a hill and got progressively narrower.  However, I wasn't seeing any signs for campgrounds, not since the initial turn off from the main road.  Eventually the pavement ended, and I didn't know what lay beyond.  I could have probably hunted down a stealth site, but I didn't know how often the roads were patrolled, or what the fire regulations were like.  So, I turned around and headed back down the hill.  It was a bit of wasted time, but on the plus side, it was a really scenic diversion.

Hard as my cheap camera tried, it couldn't quite capture just how green this corridor was

Once I got back down to the main road, I saw that the campground had been immediately on my right after turning in.  The campground was mostly full, and they were walk-in sites.  Thpppt.  Back on the main road I went.

The sun was getting lower in the sky and I was starting to feel a little more desperate to find a place to camp for the night.  I saw there was a state park outside of Truckee, and I didn't know if they had camping, but I decided to try for that, as it looked like it would be the best bet.  As I was speeding along the road to get there before it got too late, I happened to pass a small campground on the side of the road.  I hit the brakes and pulled in, with nothing to lose.

The campground was mostly empty and the sites looked nice enough.  I scouted them out (almost dumping my bike while trying to turn around in some soft sand) and picked one.  I parked, stretched my legs, and went to find a bush to relieve myself.  Not five minutes after parking, I felt a drop hit me (from the sky, not from below, just to clarify).  The clouds had been rolling in, and they looked ominous, but the forecast hadn't called for rain, so I'd been keeping my fingers crossed.  Being no stranger to rain clouds though, I realized my optimism was misplaced.

I hurried back to my bike and unpacked my essentials post haste.  I'd always put my tent up at an unhurried pace before, but time was of the essence this evening.  I got the tent pitched, feeling the frequency of drops steadily increasing.  I'd just gotten the rain fly situated and my gear situated when the skies really opened up and dumped hard.  I sequestered myself in my tent for the rest of the evening, listening to the rain outside, eating half of my sandwich, sipping a couple beers, and catching up in my journal.  It wasn't as nice as sitting by a fire, but it wasn't such a bad way to spend an evening.