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“You’ve got your Leatherman mounted upside down on your backpack strap…”
“It’s ‘cuz I’m tactical.”
“My GPS says we’ve spent two & a half of the last 4 hours stationary.”
“Mom never liked this shirt anyway.”
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What started off as a surprisingly painless, traffic-free run up the coast became slightly spoiled a few short miles before we exited, when a driver flipped us off as he passed us, apparently disgruntled at our less-than-20-mph-over-the-limit pace. We left the bad freeway vibe behind on Rufugio Rd, enjoying the narrow twisting curves – which became slightly spoiled a few miles on when a slow driver flipped us all off as we passed by, apparently disgruntled at our less-than-15-mph-under-the-limit pace. So, inside a 5-minute time period, we were “visually assaulted” because a driver behind us had to change lanes in order to pass us, and because we changed lanes in order to pass a driver in front of us.
It was with tears of relief, then, that we crossed over from asphalt to dirt and loose rocks at the coastal ridgeline. The chucklehead factor is significantly lower off pavement. What a blessing, knobby tires!The descent into the Santa Ynez Valley has beautiful views on offer, peeking now & then through the oak tree canopy of the steep hillside. A pair of dirt bikers passed us, waving 5 fingers each (rather than one) at us as they went by. This was the first dirt of the day, and the pass is a bit rough, so we regrouped when the pavement reasserted itself, & spent a few minutes rehydrating, adjusting packs & clothing layers, etc., before continuing on.
We spent a few brief, entertaining minutes passing slowly through Solvang & Buellton, and soon found ourselves free from town traffic on remote & narrow paved canyon roads. The scenery shifted back & forth; straight roadway leading up broad valleys, twisty blacktop winding through tight canyons. 
Coming out of one section of narrow curves, a small town revealed itself on the flatland below, flanked by the 101 Freeway. A quick refuel and a crossing of the superslab, & we were off again on the backroads.
Our route took us eventually to Foxen Cyn Rd, which we followed north, finally ending up on the freeway. A short stretch brought us to an early lunch stop in Arroyo Grande. AG is near to the coast; the weather was cool and comfortable – especially considering the dire heat predictions for the day. Ahead of ourselves, time-wise, we took it easy under roadside restaurant umbrellas, fielding questions about our bikes from other diners & passers by.Finally, somehow, the potential energy of nine guys sitting still beside nine perfectly good motorcycles reached some sort of crescendo, and we all found ourselves following along eagerly with the traffic as it gradually dropped off with increased distance from town. The road lost the yellow stripes, then the white ones, getting narrower. Split rail fences appeared. Cows, horses, the pavement replaced by gravel, then dirt. A big brown sign marked the end of a string of redundant “No Trespassing” signs; we had left the real world and entered the National Forest.
Time has no meaning in our magical National Forests; good thing, too, because after what could possibly have seemed only a few minutes into the ride, Jeff Gillette got a flat tire. As artsy as he is magnetic, Jeff decided to build a cairn out of his motorcycle before we fixed it. That bike sat perfectly balanced on top of three rocks while, perhaps cursed by some evil cager from earlier in the morning, we spent hours and hours in inner tube hell, patching, pinching, removing, installing, re-removing, and jamming up the valve core. I think we R-&-I-ed that tube 5 times, while riders either helped or hindered or photographed, or simply snored, unknowingly laying on poison oak, their beards slowly growing…I’d love to drag this bit of the story out a few pages for you but I’ve been there, for real, and I know how dangerously close it might bring you to self-immolation if I were to do that, so I will shorten the story by pointing out that less, I think, than a mile after we finally got Jeff’s bike rolling, he got another flat.
“Oh sure,” you are thinking, “the patch failed, or you pinched the tire again or something.”Nope. Magneto drew unto his own tire yet another bit of sharp metal, so that none there of all the 18 tires or so were scathed at all, saving the rear tire only of Magneto’s own ride, to which all sharp metallic things are inexorably - we have since concluded – drawn.
No cairn this time. He really wanted to build a cairn, I think, but we tossed the back end over the side of the road, basically hi-centering his bike on the road edge, and with a little extra help now & then got the tire off, repaired the problem 2 or 3 times, and got the tire back on. I think it only took us forty-five minutes this time, maybe an hour.
As it turned out, we were only a mile or two from a planned rest stop, when Jeff got his second flat. As we filled up water containers at the stop, Steve “Rudolph” DeCosta observed, “My GPS says we’ve spent two and a half of the last 4 hours stationary.”
Did I mention this was one of the longest shop rides ever planned (er, and fixing flats wasn’t part of the plan)? We were in San Luis Obispo County, the sun was well over on the dark side of noon, and we had miles and miles to go just to reach the northernmost end of the Carrizo Plain – the southernmost end being quite a haul from the shop, as it is.
Interestingly enough, this worked out perfectly. The shadows were lengthening as we reached a vista point overlooking California Valley north of Soda Lake.
It was quite warm; if we had reached the Carrizo at mid-day, we would have been crossing the sun’s anvil. As it was, the air cooled slowly as we continued south and found our way onto Elkhorn Rd in the Carrizo. Orange light and blue shadows set khaki grasses ablaze at the edge of the pale white granitic sand of the roadbed. 
A few short technical stretches of archaic roadway lead to fine, fast unpaved riding; sweeping turns, numerous dips into folds in the low hills, broad savannah views from the top of each rise. Comfort with partial traction and the ability to make use of short roadside berms can make these miles feel like a water ride at a theme park. Looking back, the westering sun set every rider’s small dust plume ablaze with light, yet already the land was dim enough that headlights stood out against the background as riders emerged from low sections of the trail.
By the time we reached Hwy 166, riders were low on fuel. The station en route to Ojai was closed. We detoured to Maricopa for gas. Neil Reynolds took the golden opportunity to head home on nearby I-5; most everyone else lived far enough up the coast that the ride to Ojai made better sense for them – besides, there’s the post-ride meal to think of…It was just past nine pm when we finally slid into Ojai! It’s amazing how a little nail or two after lunch can end up drastically altering your dinner plans.
Ojai rolls up the sidewalks early, even on Saturday night; we checked a fistful of restaurants and found them all closed. It turned out that the only spot open in this town full of great food opportunities was… Carrow’s.
Teary-eyed for the second (or third) time on this overextended and misbegotten ride, we slouched into Carrow’s… Not. The Carrizo, and the always wonderful Hwy 33, had been such a delightful end to such a long day that Jeff had been thrice-blessed for altering our schedule; we were far too happy with the day not to carry it all into Carrow’s with us, eventually infecting the service staff enough that they stopped harrumphing at the last minute arrivals (Carrow’s wanted to close too), and even joined a bit in our joking now & then.
We even ordered dessert.
Where will we be riding in October? Place your bets…
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