Snow Where to Go
Today I got spanked by a loyal member of my motorcycle club. This is a group I founded twenty-five years ago. In fact, this past year I authored a 440-page tome titled The Ride is All about the twenty-five years of riding together all over the world. There is an entire chapter up front about all the characters that make up the club. I’m not sure we are any more or less colorful than any other motorcycle clubs, but we certainly are unique in our own way. The name of the book that chronicles our history says a lot about our fundamental riding philosophy. Our motto is High Mileage, Low Expectations and we have been all about time in the saddle combined with modest and friendly accommodations and camaraderie. The group prides itself in having a very diverse composition and we have always thought of that as a strength. I take my lead from Groucho Marx who famously said he wouldn’t join any club that would have him as a member (even though he was apparently not the first to make that observation, only the most notable). I do not adhere to exclusionary ways. I could suggest that it is about my strong moral character, but the truth is closer to being that I’ve been rejected enough to have a strong aversion to elitism in club membership. No one in the club seemed to mind this approach to membership, so we wandered down the path of diversity, excluding only those who could not afford the time or money to join in, so we kept the ride costs as low as possible by keeping expectations low. But today the check came due on the diversity program.
I woke up early at about 5am and made the bad choice to read some emails. I read the Heather Cox Richardson email that publishes late in the evening and it recited in its normally dispassionate way, the events of the discovery and expose of the Trump 62 minute telephone call with Georgia Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger. I had heard of this before bed, but there is something about how HCR lays out the facts and then reminds us of the other important events of the news cycle and how it all fits together. It filled me with such rage that we have been reduced to sitting idly by while the man sitting behind the Resolute Desk does as he pleases without regard for law or propriety. He is a man who will stop at nothing to get his way, no matter what he must do or what gets damaged in his wake. It got my blood up at a time of weakness when my mind was clear but raw. I forwarded the HCR email to my motorcycle members and added a strong note of disgust at Trump’s actions, going to the extreme of saying he was guilty of sedition and treason and should be prosecuted to the full extent of the law for all the harm he has done to America.
I know my membership as well as anyone in the club so I know just who sits on what side of the aisle. We have all traveled enough and talked with one another enough to connect all the dots (or most of them). Those who stand in the most strident contrast to my views are all engaged in a regular back and forth with me that gives us the basis for both scoring good natured points on each other and occasionally making serious points for consideration. I heard very little from any of the membership about my 5am note until later in the day. In the meantime, I just happen to get on my R1250 GS Adventure and let lose for a ride up to Palomar Mountain. I like to ride when there is a lot on my mind. It takes me out of myself since there is nothing in my helmet except whatever tunes I have on Bluetooth and whatever is 150 feet in front of me on the road. I have one particular playlist on my phone called Upbeat with all the happiest songs I could think of. That’s what I put on this morning, specifically because I was so troubled by the Trump abuses of power and the futility of our position as Americans to do anything about it.
After filling the tank with cheap Rincon Reservation gas (I justify the tax savings by thinking that I’m helping a depressed class of native Americans), I scooted South on Rt. 76 to the S6 to go up the switchbacks on Palomar Mountain. This is perhaps the favorite motorcycle knee-scraping road in Southern California and it lasts for about 6 miles. On a Monday morning it is empty of all the weekend warriors and I have it to myself all the way up. Halfway up I unexpectedly encountered traces of snow on the side of the road. I am generally aware that Palomar can be quite wintery at this time of year so I avoid it on days when the weather might imply snow, but it was mid-60’s today and it never occurred to me to expect snow. By the time I got to the top, the snow banks were 2-3 feet high. Luckily, the warmth of the sun had melted anything on the road, but that didn’t stop every curve from being soaked with snow runoff and the constant fear that it might be a bit slicker than was healthy for a motorcycle. It takes an edge off the ride, but seeing snow when you live in San Diego and grew up as an avid skier creates lots of conflicting emotions. But when on a bike, I am governed by thoughts of staying upright. I’ve tasted asphalt and it does not appeal to me. So, I tuck away thoughts of the beauty of sunshine on snow and start down the S7 being especially careful in the shadows where ice can lurk.
The snow ended a third of the way down and the rest of the ride was uneventful except that these San Diego hills are as spectacular to ride as anywhere in the world I have ridden. One of the things I like about motorcycling is that I feel I can enjoy it as much by myself as with a group. I have never been one who worries about trying to ride with a group that is too big, the more the merrier. But I am equally just fine riding alone since ultimately the ride is, indeed, all. I once rode with Peter Fonda out of Las Vegas. He told me he thought the only way to ride was alone, to the point where he would take great unplanned rides with no friends and no reservations. I am not that committed to riding solo, but I don’t mind a day ride by myself.
My usual lunch spot at Lake Henshaw was closed on Mondays so I carried on to Santa Ysabel where I know there is a nice restaurant and a Julian Pie Company outlet that sells my favorite pie crust cinnamon cookies. Outside in the parking lot I pulled up next to another motorcycle, which happened to be a BMW K1600 like the one I owned before my current ride. I took up a friendly conversation with the rider, who was about to mount up. He was willing to chat and when I learned he was a man of about my age, a retired widower living out in the rather remote Warner Springs area, I exchanged contact information with him. He may be a new riding buddy since he lives out where I usually ride. I didn’t even realize at that point that I might need a new riding buddy.
When I returned home I read my accumulated emails for the day and got an email from one of my motorcycle club members, someone whose politics are not among those I can easily identify. He finds, in an email reply to our entire club, my email offensive and inappropriate to be sent to our club, that club I started twenty-five years ago and wrote about for 440 pages of coffee table book with 86 pictures. I did the only thing a self-aware person can do under these circumstances, I apologized and retreated with my tail between my legs. I feel just as strongly tonight as I did this morning at 5am, but as I discovered on my ride up Palomar Mountain, sometimes there is simply snow where to go, so you go home to fight another day.