The sun was low when I stopped at the last rest area before LA. You could see the whole city beneath you, covered with a brown fog thick a soup. I felt a twinge in the back of my throat. "How can people live in that?" I wondered. Settling down on a remote picnic table I read late into the night.
Awakened by the daily cleanup crew, I decided to take the journey into the smog. Interstate 10 wound down into the valley and quickly became four, then six, then eight lanes. They also had these grooves carved into the pavement which made my bike shift back and forth. I saw a sign for Ventura Beach and took the exit.
Ventura Boulevard. Home of the famous Beach Boys. I had really made it. Just another large city with people rushing about in some sort of urgent business only they knew.
Staying in the right lane and keeping a keen eye out for the other people in steel cages who could care less about a crummy little old motorcycle. Them from the left, came a white Mustang convertible out of nowhere. I laid down the horn and braced for impact. The guy swung his head back, the top was down, and pulled back. I quickly entered a gas station parking lot and slammed the brakes to a quick halt.
The guy followed me in, jumped out of the convertible and began apologizing and pleading for me not to call the cops. My bike and I were fine, but I noticed a long black stripe down the right side of his white Mustang. Lucky for me the Triumph has non-folding foot pegs and my left foot was saved, less a little wear and tear against the black rubber foot peg. I said "No problem. Just watch for us cyclists in the future." He grinned and drove away happy. More than ever I just wanted to get to the beach and relax.
This beach was weird. No cars on it, so soft you sink down several inches, until the water came near and turned the white sand black. But stranger yet was the fact that hardly anyone was in the water. I had been gone from Florida over a month, but it was still August.
Following highway 101 north the expensive foreign cars parked along the right side of the road gave way to Fords and Chevys. The road also took an upward climb until the beach was totally out of sight. As I passed a county line the scrub brush outnumbered the vehicles, so I decided to stop a while.
Parking next to a wooden utility pole and chaining the bike, I could tell from the steep incline down that I would not be able to see my bike from the beach. I stopped at the beach store, perched on the precipice and bought a coke and hot dog.
While sitting nearby munching lunch, I saw what looked like squirrels popping their heads out from the rocks. I asked the hot dog guy what they were and he replied "Ground Hogs! Eat anything you throw their way. They're harmless really." Sure enough he tossed a cigarette butt down the slope and five furry bodies scrambled for it. One succeeded, took a bite, and spit it out. They disappeared as quickly as they arrived.
I found a path down to the beach and several nice rocks suitable for staying the night. The whole length of the beach was only about 200 yards long before turning into giant boulders against the waves. Watching the sun set into the water I decided to go back up to the store before closing and buy a six pack of Olympia beer and settle in for the night.
No sooner than I emptied the first can did a large fire start down at the end of the beach. I grabbed a cold one and wandered down to the large throng of people barely visible in the moonlight. It was a giant beach party of at least fifty people all laughing and partying. I heard someone ask "Who's bike is that chained to a pole from Florida?"
Stepping closer I spoke out "That's my bike. Name's Don, who are you?" "I'm Mike. You really ride that thing all the way from Florida?" Feeling a dozen eyes on me I managed a response "Yeah, but I stopped by Chicago and Denver on the way." (slight bragging here) "Cool" echoed the crowd of unknown faces. Then came the killer question "wha'ch ya gonna do out here?" Desperately searching for another coolness, the only valid response surprised even me "Party!"
A great whooping ensued from the gathering and I was instantly one of the bunch. Funny how this sort of thing never happened to me in Florida. The California youngsters really liked to party and socialize with new folks.
I settled down later on a rock while the group built a fire. "Why doesn't anyone go swimming?" I asked someone. Big eyes and a loud laugh answered "Fifty degrees in the water. This ain't Florida" "How could anyone swim in that?" I replied. "Wetsuits. Everyone has one." Curious as I was, I removed my shoes and socks, rolled up my pant legs and went to the shoreline. They weren't kidding. The water felt like ice cubes. This was totally weird. How were people supposed to enjoy the water?
Time grew late and I grew tired. Retreating to my rock and backpack, I built a comfortable couch of sand and canvas, and slowly fell asleep while the party went on.
"Hey man. Wanna get some breakfast?" It was Mike and I woke up. Must have been about nine o'clock in the morning. "Sure." grumbling and rolling out of my cocoon. The air was warm and sleeping bag hot. We We rolled up my stuff and climbed up the cliff-side to old Thumper, still chained to the telephone pole.
A short jaunt down several rolling downhill curves and Mike tapped me on the shoulder "Jack-in-the-Box". He pointed at the small brightly colored building. I stopped off to the side next to a row of concrete picnic tables. Ordering only a burger and cokes we sat down on the concrete benches and cut the burger in half.
I had noticed the last twenty dollar bill in my wallet and knew that was all I had, unless I got a job. "Where's a good place to get a job?" I asked. "Right here at Jack-in-the-Crack." "My friend's making five bucks an hour." Sounded like good money, but a burger joint seemed quite revolting, especially as I winced at my breakfast. "I need to get back to Florida in three days or get a job." I spoke out loud absently minded. Mike said "I know how to get to Florida in three days on a bike with twenty bucks." "What?" I looked at him with all seriousness. "Finish this and I'll show you" was all he would say.
Back on the bike Mike spoke out directions from behind and I trustfully followed. Soon we were winding through the mountains and valleys overlooking extreme precipices and cliffs. This place was exactly opposite from the beach scene, but only minutes away. Rounding up behind some apartments, Mike hopped off and said "Five bucks gets you the best Hawaiian coffee, guaranteed to keep you going all the way to FLA." This was his answer and I had nothing else to think of, so I handed him my next to the last bill, leaving me with one lone Andrew Jackson and three thousand miles to go.
True to his word he returned in a couple of minutes and I gave him a ride to his parents house. A nice suburban neighborhood where he wanted me to drop him off on a corner and a fast goodbye left me on my own again.
Filling up with the usual three gallons of gas and sipping down two spoons of Hawaiian Java in some free hot water, I headed north-east to Barstow and back out of California via interstate 40. The next forty-eight hours were a blur and blinking white line, thanks to the Java and free hot water in the truck stops.
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