The next day and half were off days. Rex’s wife wanted to see him and visit Napa valley and Steve was rejoining the group. This revised their travel schedule. So after much wine and rest was had, “three days of understanding” were on tap down in Monterey. It was easy for Marlow and Steve to sell this desire to maximize enlightenment. They hastened the group’s arrival for a midday lunch by the bay on Cannery Row.

Their path from Vallejo hurtled them along California route 37 and US 101 to an early commuter hour crossing of the Golden Gate Bridge in pea soup fog. Given the traffic density and excess speed encountered their pucker factors registered in their gauges’ “diamond creation” section. This indicator’s needle didn’t return to a normal reading until they had passed through the Embarcadero. After a few miles they were deeply grooving and harmonizing along California’s route 1 and the Cabrillo Highway.

The coastal scenery from Frisco though Santa Cruz to Monterey was a veritable pop festival treat for the senses. They listened and they played. Seals were barking; gulls were keening. Flowers were blooming and pleasuring them with their scents. The road’s young gods must have been smiling down on them, since they fell under a spell as they flew low and fast through this mind blowing landscape. Their souls danced as the California seascape’s magic music riffed before their eyes until they were down in Monterey.

Yeah!

They ate lunch and chatted along the bay for a long time. They were effortlessly chilling until one of them decided it was time to check into their accommodations at the Naval Post Graduate School Navy Lodge. Much time had passed since Malrow and Steve last navigated these roads and the streets had changed a bit. It took a few passes until they made the correct turn onto the steep road that climbed up to the La Mesa housing complex and the lodge. No harm. No foul.

Steve and Marlow wanted to take the group to a bayside Pacific Grove restaurant they had visited many years earlier. It took them a while before they found it adjacent to Lover’s Point with its spectacular view, friendly staff, ample wine list and scrumptious food. They gathered the troops and enjoyed a spectacular sunset and a fabulous meal.
Sunset from Latitudes Restaurant Pacific Grove CA Nighttime Lighting at Latitudes Restaurant

The next days were planned to be a prolonged stalking of the Monterey sublime. It was a simple plan to sample the delights as they rode the peninsula and the Pacific Coast Highway south from Monterey to Augustus’s sister in-law’s place in Los Osos.

Regrettably harsh reality intruded again. On the way home from the restaurant the previous night, Steve’s bike developed a severe mechanical condition — its rear wheel bearings were completely shot. The local Seaside Honda dealer could get the job done but it would require two days to ship the parts for his rare 1997 Valkyrie. We parted ways with plans to rendezvous a third time with him at his sister’s place in New Mexico.

Almost immediately upon starting the day’s ride, Augustus and Rex found themselves helpless before the Monterey peninsula’s beauty. It seemed to do that to its guests – grabbing their hands, leading them on walks along its paths, while playing soft violin music and making them get misty. They became hopelessly lost and oblivious of everything other than this place and the moment, never wanting to leave its dreamscape.

The days were crystal clear and a bit chilly. A ride to Carmel Valley was pleasant. A left turn off of California route 1 and onto the Carmel Valley Road was an ode to joy. Its 50+ miles round trip flowed with classic California twistiness. They reveled in its dappled light, desertedness and vistas.

They couldn’t tarry long. They had a prior engagement with an obscenely beautiful place.

Marlow had first visited Point Lobos State Park more than 30 years ago when he was a student at the US Navy Post Graduate School. He went there often with his two daughters.

One early visitor and landscape artist had dubbed it “the greatest meeting of land and water in the world.” Even if one didn’t find this extravagant verdict true, most would rank the park in their life’s top five places to visit. The biker trio walked gently though the cypress tree-clad headland. They breathed its spirit deeply. Gorgeous beyond belief . . .

The next day they headed south towards Big Sur and lunch. This portion of the PCH had long straights, sweeping corners, tight corners, blind corners, and smooth corners. There was a little bit of everything to pique their appetites and soothe their souls. They went with the flow the entire way to the Nepenthe Inn.

Road religion born anew daily on the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH or CA route 1)

Nepenthe’s food was as always exorbitantly expensive — $16 for a hamburger. They were paying for the view and quite probably someone’s yacht. Its Ambrosia burgers were superb. The cliff top views along the edge of America were fantastic. They felt like we were clinging to a cloud.

Just prior to departing the Inn’s tree-shaded parking lot, two small children approached their idling scooters. They were clothed in typical Big Sur, post-hippie era, ragamuffin attire — flannel shirts, shorts and sandals. These towheads exuded a charm that instantly captivated the bikers. Followed at some distance by their lissome 20-something mother, they wanted a closer look at their rumbling bikes. They offered the children a chance to sit upon the bike. With their mother’s encouragement, they trusted them to lift and deposit them upon the stitched leather seats that floated above the growling monsters. Each one gingerly at first and then with gusto gave the throttles a twist or two. Thus thrilled, they talked ceaselessly of their uncle’s motorcycle. After one last seat perching and several more exhaust pipe brappings, they parted company. It was just one of those special road trip moments that happens from time to time.

They spent a long time at Nepenthe. It was worth it. The spell was complete. Alas, they had the bulk of the day’s riding to finish.

Departing well past 3 PM, they were forced to skip a planned visit to the Hearst Castle. Even from the road, they could tell that the San Simeon mansion maintained its reputation as “what God would have built if he had had the money.” They also refused the roadside billboards’ discreet invitations to other state parks and stunning vista pull offs, preferring to glide upon the road.

An indelible memory from that afternoon ride:

a single cypress atop a hill moaning from thirst . . . its needled arms lifted in supplication
to the cloudless blue sky for relief . . . an errant knife-edged thin cloud briefly engulfed it . . .
the sliver of fog bisected the cypress’ golden brown hill before disappearing in a poof.

They could have wandered this wonderland a long, long time.

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